I’m a sucker for all things Norman Rockwell. Go ahead, call his illustrations kitschy, cheesy and polished for department stores and cookbooks, because in many ways they are. Rockwell’s paintings are the “exhibit A” of sorts for the idealized and wholesome “America” that birthed the “greatest generation,” beat the Nazis, beat the Japanese, loved Bing Crosby and always stood up for what was right in the world. That America is where the movie, “The Sandlot” is set and where Coca-Cola is always served in glass bottles.
Rockwell’s version of America is full of patriotic scenes of soldiers returning from war just in time to peel potatoes with their mother, of quaint New England towns and of rosy cheeked cherubic little children sledding and ice skating. It seems to be inhabited almost exclusively by happy, family-oriented and truly “American” people. These Americans are almost exclusively white.
There is something endearing and nostalgic about Rockwell’s illustrations. Anyone who might be saying to him or herself, “Who is Norman Rockwell?” need not feel out of the loop. Rockwell, the man and illustrator, is a bit of a faceless legend, akin to Nat King Cole or Bing Crosby. Even if you can’t identify them by their most famous contributions to the American pop culture canon, you know exactly what they are famous for once you hear or see what they’ve produced. Crosby and Cole are the crooners in America’s perfect holiday season, and Rockwell draws the Christmas cards.
If Rockwell has made one lasting impact on American culture, it’s been his impact on how we envision the holiday season. More specifically, it’s how we envision the ideal holiday season, where Santa is always happy, the turkey is always perfectly cooked, everyone is wearing wool and we don’t seem to care that our picturesque little holiday world is stuck in 1946.
My favorite Rockwell painting is perhaps his most famous. Officially titled “Freedom from Want,” it’s the iconic image of the perfect Thanksgiving dinner. The grandfather figure is dignified and wise-looking, as it’s clear that he will be doing the cutting of the turkey and that he will do it correctly. The grandmother is humble and wholesome, and holds the steaming turkey with the care and respect that a master craftsman might exhibit when he or she is presenting a masterpiece. The people crowded around the table are jovial and look hungry, yet show no sign of being greedy. The little girl in the left corner has a face that you could put on the wrappers of 1 million bleached loaves of white bread. And you’d probably sell every one.
In short, it’s too perfect. It’s exactly what we think our ideal, nostalgic version of Thanksgiving is supposed to look like. Produced in the midst of World War II, the painting represents one of the “Four Freedoms ” that former U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt expressed in his 1941 inauguration that everyone in the world should enjoy, along with Freedom of Want, Freedom of Worship, Freedom of Speech and Freedom from Fear.
Rockwell’s position as resident illustrator for the Saturday Evening Post, at that time the most popular periodical in the country and in some ways the embodiment of American escapism during the depths of WWII and the Great Depression era, allowed him to produce works that were timeless and nostalgic even during their own time-period.
There’s a reason why my grandmother’s house is littered with Rockwell prints: they brought her back to “the good old days” when she was a little girl. It’s ironic then that she looked and continues to look to these days, when in my mind, she was there when all those scenes happened for real.
Rockwell was also the premier propaganda artist of his day. J. Howard Miller invented Rosie the Riveter, but Rockwell made her a star. This is no small fact. Rockwell’s works came during a time that we all see as ideal and perfect, but it was also the days of “Smoke a pack of Camels: Doctor’s Orders!” and the Cult of Domesticity. Former U.S. Sen. Joseph McCarthy was alive and well. So was former Premier of the Soviet Union Joseph Stalin. If Rockwell’s Thanksgiving seems too good to be true, and certainly nothing like the one you know and still continue to look forward to each year, that’s because it is.
Art and icons stay with us, even as times change. Thanksgiving always has a few burnt turkeys. This was as true in 1946 as it is in 2014. We will always need a scene of fantasy and idealism to make us appreciate our own holiday celebrations, even if the two images are miles apart. My Thanksgiving will never look like Rockwell’s, and I doubt that Rockwell’s ever looked that perfect either.
Rockwell actually painted himself into the painting, in the very bottom right corner, something my grandmother pointed out to me last Thanksgiving. His expression is a half sly grin, half mocking chuckle. It’s almost as though he’s laughing at you for ever believing the holidays could ever look that good.
