Death in the Crowd on November 22 I and II. Mixed media (spray paint, colored pencils, original and found photography) collage divided in half.
[This essay accompanies the piece in a sealed envelope which the artist typed on his late grandfather's Corona Sterling typewriter.]
Betty adjusts the weight of her toddler on her hip and hands the diaper bag to her son who stands impossibly close to the hem of her dress. With her freeish hand she digs in her purse for her sunglasses. The noon light is intense for late fall in Dallas and there’s no guarantee they’ll be able to find shade under the oak trees in Delaney Plaza. She’s meeting her neighbor, Mabel, and her two young kids who are saving a spot to watch President Kennedy’s motorcade. Last night the nightly TV news anchor confirmed The First Lady would be joining the President’s fundraising efforts in Fort Worth, Dallas and Austin. Mabel and Betty speculated on the phone this morning what colors Jackie would be wearing. Mabel was sure of robin’s egg-blue, Betty hoped for pink or marigold. The curbside crowds lining Elm Street thinned as the street meandered out from the sharp shadows of the brick downtown buildings. The usual heavy traffic on the thoroughfare abated for the prestigious visitor’s impending arrival. Her son stopped abruptly to tie the laces of his shoe in the center lane. Betty is instantly annoyed with the frequency of her boy’s dawdling and less concerned about being struck by a car. She hears Mabel call her name and they hurriedly finish crossing the cement that divides one public green space from the other. Betty is visibly excited for her kids to be present for this moment. They’ve seen The President and The First Lady on their new TV. They’ve heard Mister Kennedy speak on the radio in the kitchen. They’ve listened to her husband read aloud about The Kennedys in the Herald over toast and coffee. Betty already regretted that her daughter would be too young to remember this special occasion. Her son will eagerly tell the story to his father when he returns home from work at the commercial bakery.
The TV is on in the living room when Betty opens the front door of her home. The kitchen radio competes for attention in vain. Her husband sits blankly between both devices, doesn’t stand and barely acknowledges when she enters the room with their children. The air feels thick like death hitched a ride with them from downtown and is now sucking the air and joy from this home. Updates broadcast about the assassin’s capture in their local theater after killing a police officer.
Betty clicks the TV off first then silences the man hunt from the kitchen. The sounds of this afternoon’s events reverberate in her head. One, maybe two shots from a rifle. The initial confused quiet from the shocked crowd. The revving engine of the Lincoln Continental. The panic of mothers clutching their children. Her daughter’s sobs. Her son’s inquisitive nature silenced after witnessing Death in the crowd on November 22, 1963.
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