By Chris Lane
By Jef With One F
By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
Although the Vietnam Veterans Memorial attracts more visitors than any other site in Washington, D.C., and is perhaps the single most effective war memorial in the country, its design narrowly missed the scrap heap of history. The saga has been told many times over, but it still serves as a worthy introduction to one of the most fascinating figures in the field of design today, Maya Ying Lin. As a nerdy, faculty-brat child of Chinese immigrants, Lin reshaped the notion of what a memorial can be. She was a mere undergraduate when, in 1981, a panel of architecture experts unanimously chose her memorial design, done for an architecture class at Yale, from among 1,421 submissions. No one thought they had made an easy choice, especially given the complicated emotions surrounding the war. Yet the vets who headed the memorial fund were convinced that Lin's understated, polished black wall was special enough to be worth defending.
Lin's design is antimonumental. Neither proud nor vainglorious, it does nothing to reinforce our patriotism. It has few elements, but those who opposed the design took issue with every one: the color of the stone should be white, they said; the monument should be above ground rather than set into the earth; the names should be alphabetical rather than chronological; and (in what is perhaps the most hilarious manifestation of the male-vs.-female subtext of this struggle) a 50-foot flagpole should be mounted at the apex of the wall's wide, loping angle. The memorial fund's organizers wanted to heal the still raw wound the Vietnam War had left on the nation, yet the controversy that erupted around Lin's design seemed largely a carryover of that frustration and mistrust. Just as antiwar demonstrators were unable to separate the men who served their country from the faulty politics of intervention in Vietnam, so those who opposed Lin's design seemed unable to distinguish it from the chilly reception they had received upon their return home. One veteran called the wall "the most insulting and demeaning memorial possible."
Although the wall's design was accepted by many veterans organizations, a small, well-connected and vocal group managed to turn its own opposition into a media circus that cast Lin, ironically, as the veterans' opponent. Ross Perot, who had originally given seed money for the memorial, tried to sabotage the jury's decision. Tom Wolfe called the design "a tribute to Jane Fonda," and Pat Buchanan drove an attack against the contest judges, pegging them as antiwar demonstrators and communists. Throughout the fight, and even in the face of racial insults, Lin calmly defended her design. "It is not a memorial to politics or war or controversy," the 22-year-old insisted, "but to all those men and women who served."
In order to get the memorial built, a compromise was eventually reached: A statue of three soldiers and a flagpole would be erected near the wall. (The sculptor's fee was many times what Lin was paid.) But the moment the wall opened in 1982, all criticism of Lin's design simply stopped, silenced by the emotional outpouring of visitors to the memorial. It was an unequivocal success. Today, the truckloads of photos and other memorabilia left at the wall each year are collected and stored in off-site warehouses.
One problem critics such as Wolfe had with the wall was that it seemed to express that cold, modern aesthetic that so many people found elitist or perplexing. But unlike Richard Serra's 1980 Tilted Arc and Carl Andre's 1981 Stone Field Sculpture, two tax-funded public artworks infamously foisted upon unwelcoming publics, the wall was embraced by visitors. Critics have suggested that Eastern tenets of simplicity and humility, not Western minimalism, guided Lin's design, and undeniably Lin's harmonious work possesses many of those qualities serenity, horizontality, femininity that are considered Eastern. Yet, by her own admission, she was tremendously influenced by Serra and earthwork artists such as Robert Smithson. She simply managed to bend modernism into the service of creating a space that invited the addition of human feelings.
"Her ability to make public space the condition of an intense and empowering experience of privacy is almost miraculous" is the way critic Michael Brenson so aptly puts it in the catalog of "Topologies," the Lin exhibit that's currently on view at the Contemporary Arts Museum.
After the Vietnam memorial was complete, Lin returned to school to earn her master's degree in architecture. But she was soon called upon to create other commemorative designs: the Civil Rights Memorial in Montgomery, Alabama, and the Women's Table, honoring undergraduate women at Yale, before she gave up the memorial business for other projects. While Lin considers herself (and, indeed, is) American, she credits much of her aesthetic to her Eastern roots, approaching design in a manner that's perhaps more Japanese than anything else (she even did a sort of "rock garden" of raked broken glass at the Wexner Center for the Arts in Ohio). Yet unlike other architects and artists of her stature, Lin has confined her activities to this country. Her bio lists no projects or exhibits elsewhere, and in articles about her I found nothing that explained why. Lin has chosen the United States or we've chosen her. Either is gratifying, given the unlikelihood of an Asian-American woman being called upon to make a permanent statement on subjects so central to our national identity.