Gallery Buzz

By Jessica Marten, Assistant Curator
President’s Day 2009

In celebration of Lincoln’s bicentennial, the Memorial Art Gallery exhibition Lincoln in Rochester (2/12-4/26) gathers together over forty photographs, prints, sculptures and objects from Rochester’s cultural institutions and private lenders. Almost every work contains the wise and homely face of the 16th President of the United States of America, Abraham Lincoln. His was such a compelling visage that the great American poet Walt Whitman wrote “He has a face like a Hoosier Michael Angelo, so awful ugly it becomes beautiful…” Lincoln’s face is such an integral part of his legend (i.e. the penny, the $5 bill, Mount Rushmore, an orange crate label on view in the gallery) that to many it’s become more symbol than mere countenance.

To me, Abe’s appearance has always been inextricably linked to that of my dad, Jerry Marten.

Jerry Marten

See what I mean? Beard? Check. Nose? Check. Ears? Check. Although not a traditionally handsome man, I saw such beauty in my dad’s face. He always wore facial hair of some kind, from a handle-bar moustache to a full beard. As a girl I would often sit on the bathroom sink to watch him shave. He used the old-fashioned cakes of shaving cream and a bristle brush. I loved the sound of the razor cutting through the bristly hair as he trimmed and tidied his face. My dad taught his four daughters that the most valuable thing we could do was to help other people – to leave a mark of compassion and generosity on this world.

Carolyn, Jerry, and Jessica Marten (author), early 1980s

Dad passed away two days before Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States of America and the first African-American to be elected to the highest office of our country. The death of my father, President Obama’s inauguration, Lincoln’s bicentennial – these three things are now forever tightly bound together inside of me. The inauguration that we all gathered together to watch on TV has already started to bleed into the pageantry of my father’s funeral – the police pallbearers, the bagpiper playing Ave Maria, the military folding of his burial flag at Calverton National Cemetery. (It was President Lincoln who signed into law the establishment of national cemeteries for veterans during the Civil War – one year after his first inauguration and three years before his funeral.)

This morning on my way to work I heard on the radio that Abraham Lincoln was ranked the best American president in a survey of 65 historians conducted by C-SPAN. Presidents were judged on categories like pursuing equal justice for all, crisis management, and vision. It is no surprise that President Obama has positioned himself alongside Abraham Lincoln in both substantive and symbolic ways – a moment of particularly symbolic beauty was Obama taking the oath of office on the same Bible that Honest Abe used at his first inauguration. These two American presidents share many commonalities – both tall men from Illinois with humble beginnings; both excellent speech writers; both seeking to unite, rather than divide. And their inauguration images contain such power. Capturing more than just a moment in time, these images symbolize our empowerment as citizens to make a mark.

Dad didn’t know about the election, much less the impending inauguration, as he had suffered with the cruel disease of dementia for the past 10 years. But I know he would have been impressed by this historic moment, as he had always been a history buff (in particular all things Civil War) and a seeker of fairness, tolerance, and justice. I imagine showing Abraham Lincoln and my dad (maybe even at the same time – why not? – it’s my imagination) a photo of the monumental crowd at Obama’s inauguration.

I wouldn’t look away from their faces. I’d watch their eyes scan the crowd; eyes that had already seen so much. What fun it would be! I would wait, breathless, to witness that thrilling moment when their expressive, weathered faces turned from confusion to understanding and from understanding to awe.