It is September 15, 1961, one month after the border to West Germany was closed and the Berlin Wall erected. The cover of Life magazine depicts a man in a fallout suit flinching from a shower of crimson light aimed at him from an unseen source high on our left.' He stands, incandescent, in front of a saturated black field that is less shadow than the very definition of negative space: there is nothing there at all. The man extends his right hand to guard his eyes, as if he were exiting a cozy homestead into a blistering snowstorm. His head is visible through transparent plastic-determined eyes sheltered under a creased brow, short cropped hair on the border between brown and gray, the vague suggestion of a sturdy jawbone-though his visage distorts into chaotic reflection on the left and a smeared pink haze on the right. He is, despite the distortion, the portrait of a concerned father, worried about his family, protective, daring, prepared for survival. Clearly, Life's imperative, to Survive Fallout, was meant for him, and he means to take it seriously. It is, perhaps, true that our historical distance from this moment has rendered his tragedy our parody. It is not, however, merely the safety of distance that undermines the drama of surviving a nuclear blast. The contents of this magazine-blueprints for fallout shelters in basements and backyards-are funny because of the suburban world they propose to preserve. In one cutaway illustration, a shelter is surrounded by a basement full of the paraphernalia of bourgeois leisure-a Ping-Pong table, a barbecue grill, gardening equipment-while the family, in its cinder-block shell, sleeps, primps in the mirror (for whom?), smokes a cigarette (in a fallout shelter?!). Life makes living in a fallout shelter seem cozy, snug, almost fun.2