The Americans

One of the great pleasures of living on Capitol Hill is the ability to walk out the front door on an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon in February and amble down to the National Gallery of Art. Great national museums are normally experienced during short vacation-related timeframes that force you to engage in a fairly brutal calculus of weighing the desire to see iconic works against the desire to fully appreciate them and your brain's limited capacity to process the experience. Living nearby means you can focus on small pieces of the permanent collection or ignore it entirely and give all your attention to exhibitions like the one currently on the ground floor of the West building dedicated to Robert Frank's seminal book of mid-20th century photography, The Americans.

Before today, I knew enough about art and culture that I could have told you that The Americans was considered to be a milestone in photography, that Frank was a European Jew who brought an outsider's perspective to America, much as Tocqueville had, and that the book was highly controversial on publication due to its unsparing portrayal of race and class in the 1950s, which stood in stark contrast to popular photography like that published in Life magazine. Knowing things like this serves you in good stead at dinner parties or if you happen to end up on Jeopardy or Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. It's also no substitute for spending a couple of hours actually looking at the photographs, thinking about what they mean, and marveling out how Frank condensed years of work into less than 100 images, each of which contains a small world and which together seem to miraculously tell a story as deep and rich as the nation itself.  Yesterday I only knew about Frank's work, while today I know it, or at least I've begun to know it, and that makes all the difference.