John R. Stilgoe History demands narration in this end-of-millennium era, when history and heritage collide and weld and fragment. Astute scrutinizers of contemporary painting have glimpsed the rebirth of realism as something reaching far beyond any formalist metaphor toward something else, but an that defies easy description. In Stations: An ImaginedJourney (1994), one of the most compelling books in the last decade, artist Michael Flanagan traces the outline of this else in an attempt to make sense of the image-rich late twentieth century, so divorced from the chronological framework of ordinary narrative history.1 Flanagan's Stations treats the past in a transformative way, restoring meaning lost to time, much as heirlooms lose their meaning when they are separated from their familial context. Heirlooms become antiques as family estates dissolve and items change hands at auctions, garage sales, and flea markets instead of being passed down from one blood relation to another. Storytellers can easily weave tales around antiques; after all, the antique has no specific history. It is merely a bit or piece of heritage waiting for a tale, a context, a meaning. By contrast, an heirloom portrait within its house is visual evidence of physical resemblances within families that span the generations. It is the armature around which specific tales revolve. Once sold out of the family, the portrait languishes on the dealer's wall and becomes a mere antique-its tales lost or perhaps partially reconstituted by some burrowing historian, its documentation of family cheekbones or brows dismissed, its whole being open to reinterpretation, falsification, and imagination. What if the heirloom were a landscape painting of the kind Flanagan creates to document and explain the evolution of our nation's built outdoor environment? Could it, like the portrait, be wrenched out of context? In Stations: An ImaginedJourney, Flanagan's paintings recreate a world from the late 1940s and 1950s few contemporary Americans remember and even fewer know how to analyze. Stations deliberately fuses the enduring mystery of realist painting with an awesome evocation of the realist painting's role in creating a past-of making heirlooms from antiques, of making the entire human landscape accessible again. Much of the book's text involves the struggle of its fictional hero, Lucius Caton, a former newspaperman, to make sense of his artist sister, Anna, a painter, and her husband, Russell, a photographer of railroad environments. No summary can adequately address the layers of character and narrative that embed Flanagan's text and paintings, for character and narrative produce in time a whole history that makes antiques not only into heirlooms, but near-magical items that sometimes scuttle the imagination.
Read full abstract