“This is not a representation of Surrealism as a defined movement with a capital ‘S,’” proclaimed Scott Rothkopf, Director of the Whitney Museum, during his remarks at the press preview for Sixties Surreal. “This exhibition explores the surreal manners in which a world that itself had turned odd was depicted.” As Rothkopf advanced through his PowerPoint presentation, Hyperallergic’s Editor-at-Large Hrag Vartanian leaned in and quietly asked, “What constitutes surreality here?” This brings forth a thought-provoking dilemma: Can anything truly be considered surreal when the entirety of reality seems bizarre?
Sixties Surreal reestablishes the narrative of American art between 1958 and 1972, contending that it was Surrealism—rather than Cubism—that served as the prevailing post-war aesthetic philosophy. This showcases a clear preference for content over form. Building upon Rothkopf’s 1999 undergraduate thesis (and notably less centered on Whiteness and New York), the exhibition features the contributions of 111 artists across various mediums to demonstrate how the psychologically fragmented 1960s emerged visually through themes of sexuality, fantasy, and unconscious exploration. This was a transformative epoch where the rise of television initiated a complex bond with imagery for the American public; the economic upsurge led to identities being tied to consumer goods; and the U.S./Vietnam War not only ravaged that nation and its populace but also shattered our understanding of American identity, igniting a countercultural response. The exhibition’s framework references several critical exhibitions from the era such as The Other Tradition curated by Gene Swenson in 1966 at the Institute of Contemporary Art Philadelphia, Eccentric Abstraction curated by Lucy Lippard at the now-closed Fischbach Gallery in NYC in 1967, and Funk curated by Peter Selz at the University Art Museum in Berkeley, also in 1967.
This ambitious undertaking is commendable for its effort to unify various movements across the U.S. under one overarching American influence. Nevertheless, this ambitious endeavor reveals inconsistencies from the start. For example, the Funk movement of the Bay Area, typically focusing on bodily or tactile qualities that are often humorous or lowbrow, is largely characterized as a response to Abstract Expressionism, a movement that was inspired directly by mainstream Surrealism. Clearly, a movement reacting to one that drew inspiration from Surrealism can also embody surreality—but this intertwining of influences can quickly become convoluted and perplexing.
There’s plenty to appreciate in Sixties Surreal. The exhibition prioritizes emotional impact, creating a feeling of uncanniness or dislocation through unusual juxtapositions, dizzying scale shifts, and the blurring line between subject and object. Upon stepping out of the elevator on the fifth floor, you’ll be greeted by a trio of fuzzy, life-sized camels constructed from an intricate mix of wood, steel, burlap, animal hides, wax, and oil paint (Nancy Graves, 1968–69). Then, as you enter the softly lit initial gallery, you’re encapsulated by what resembles a consumer-driven anxiety dream. Witness Claes Oldenburg’s “Soft Toilet” (1966)—a floppy, absurdly impractical creation that seems to buckle under expectation—while Alex Hay’s impressive six-foot-tall brown paper bag looms over you. Martha Rosler’s photomontages conjoin consumer gadgets with human form, showcasing body parts affixed to kitchen appliances—a “Damp Meat” dishwasher or an oven dubbed “Hot Meat” (circa 1966–72).
The exhibition is visually stunning and artistically luxurious. One of the galleries is adorned in a rich, blood-red plum that, combined with rounded walls and a thick drapery, creates an immersive environment reminiscent of a psychological theater, aptly suited for a segment that examines television’s disruptive effects on the American psyche. In Luis Jimenez’s sculpture “Blond TV Image” (1967), a bulbous visage exits the television frame, intrusively encroaching upon the real world around it. This concept is amplified by Lee Friedlander’s photographs, labeled with specific locales—like “Galax, Virginia” (1962)—that reveal contorted faces reflected on television sets within indistinguishable rooms, merging fiction and reality. The inclusion of Andy Warhol’s “Marilyn” (1967) here was unexpectedly impactful: a figure made into a flattened image and relentlessly circulated through the very medium which distorts and defines perception. It’s a refreshingly different view of one of American art’s cornerstone pieces, and I wholly appreciate it.
Additionally, bespoke shelving with soft edges presents unusual, aesthetically intriguing objects and furniture pieces featuring fascinating textures that evoke a showroom or eccentric domestic space. Works include Lee Bontecou’s jagged voids (“Untitled,” 1961), Jeremy Anderson’s coffee table resembling a digestive system (“Riverrun,” 1965), Louise Bourgeois’s anguished chrysalis (“Fée Couturière,” 1963), and Yayoi Kusama’s chair bursting with larval growths (“Accumulation,” circa 1963)—and this list is a mere sampling.
However, the raw countercultural spirit of the 1960s seems weakened. The pervasive violence, disillusionment, and the overwhelming feeling of failure from institutions such as universities, governments, and even the concept of nationality have omitted their relevance. The cultural backdrop of music, drugs, and fashion—while certainly present—lacks intensity. This dilution may arise from the prevailing art styles of the period, including the sleek intellectualism of Pop Art and the starkness of the Finish Fetish movement. Additionally, this can partially be attributed to surrealism itself. Swenson’s observation that the movement centers on “turning feelings into tangible forms for processing”—a hallmark of capitalism—combined with Suzanne Césaire’s assertion on depicting the mind’s forbidden territories renders the resulting artworks somewhat static.
Moreover, a challenge presents itself in how to transform an emotional experience into a museum context. Items like album covers and sketches fail to encapsulate the quintessential pulse of music within a column of electrifying air, which served as anthems for revolution. Additionally, curatorial focus may be lacking. While a playlist was curated for the exhibition, feedback from my music-knowledgeable colleagues (particularly Reviews Editor Natalie Haddad) indicates that it could have included deeper explorations (see Natalie’s suggestions here). Furthermore, the playlist did not receive sufficient emphasis as it was conspicuously absent from introductory remarks, wall texts, and even the (impressively detailed) 400-page catalog, a surprising oversight given music’s pivotal role in 1960s culture. And in terms of historical context regarding art, what of the documentation or references to happenings, which stemmed directly from the social movements of the time and built on-site?
Turning to the portrayal of artists from underrepresented backgrounds, the exhibition’s treatment of their inclusion can range from the absurd to the overtly problematic. Wall texts reference Romare Bearden stating, “As a Negro, I do not need to seek out ‘happenings,’ the absurd, or the surreal, because I have observed things from my studio window on 125th Street that neither Dalí nor Beckett nor Ionesco could have envisioned.” Thinkers like Amiri Baraka have posited that Black life itself embodies surrealism (the catalog essays delve into this matter more extensively).
My concern isn’t with this framing. The drawback instead lies in how the various sociopolitical circumstances that rendered the American 1960s surreal—the Vietnam War, the proliferation of television, the postwar consumer boom—remain firmly tied to that specific timestamp, while the surrealist attributes of the Black experience are presented in a way that appears timeless and universal, echoing a more extensive history of mischaracterizing the “other”. Consequently, the justification for the inclusion of certain works by Black artists seems underexplored—take the Harlem-based quote that doesn’t clearly connect with the Dada-inspired silver print “Pittsburgh Memory 2/6” (1964) that it asymmetrically accompanies. The Civil Rights Movement, which aligns almost perfectly with the exhibition’s timeline, is scarcely represented in wall texts—only alluded to in specific object labels, if at all. Is there anything quite as “surreal” as needing to persuade a nation built on your back that you deserve the so-called “inalienable” rights?
This leads to an implicit definition of “reality” that skews White, Christian, and Euro-American, inherent in a narrative that presents itself as neutral while framing others as diverging into the “surreal”—a critique that has been thoughtfully interrogated by scholars like Claudia Rankine. For instance, one wall text describing Ed Bereal’s “Focke-Wulf FW 190” (1960), an assemblage constructed from debris affixed to a metal body marked with a swastika, mentions his “rejection of the predominantly white art world in favor of a more sociopolitical form of artistic expression.” However, stating that “sociopolitical” encompasses universally applicable social and political realities raises further questions—what does the Whitney posit as a “sociopolitical artistic practice,” and why does this perspective not extend to the largely White experience?
Continuing onto Yanktonai Dakota artist Oscar Howe’s vibrant abstract piece “Retreat” (1968), with its swirling forms rendered in thorny reds, blues, and blacks, the exhibition’s supporting text frames the artwork’s intent as mainly reframing Indigenous visuality in the mainstream—“challenging ethnographic narratives” and “market pressures,” while “broadening Native modernism’s visual language”—rather than engaging with the subconscious exploration the show ostensibly aims to highlight. The text goes on to liken experiencing the work to feeling “directly engaged in a Dakota ceremonial action.” However, is it genuinely surreal for an artist immersed in an already established tradition to explore its nuances? The section categorizes these pieces as “alternatives” to “organized religion”—yet isn’t partaking in the transubstantiated body of Christ a pretty surreal experience as well? It would have been preferable for this surrealism exhibition to challenge the notion of “reality” rather than reinforcing it.
By the exhibition’s conclusion, I found myself perplexed over the definition of “surrealism” as intended by the curatorial team—an unintentionally surreal experience in itself. What exactly makes Don Potts’s minimalist sculpture “My First Car: Basic Chassis” (1970) surreal, other than its connection to the Funk and Eccentric Abstraction exhibitions? The wall text suggests its potential to stand in for “that other locomotive machine: a human being,” supposedly to categorize it under the surrealist umbrella, but I find myself bewildered by its reasoning. If the convergence of “organic and mechanical, exposed and vulnerable” signifies the surreal, would we categorize Futurism as surreal? Hence, where do we draw the line for artworks deemed not surreal?
In summary, what Sixties Surreal aims to accomplish is profoundly ambitious; achieving such a complex argument was never going to be simple. The significance of its endeavors highlights the necessity for clearer definitions and operationalization of its terms. What defines the “real,” and consequently the “surreal”?
As I reflect on the experience, I’m reminded of a familiar sentiment on TikTok, often found under clips showcasing bizarre interactions—like a rat tussling with a pigeon or someone dressed as an oversized milk carton on the subway—respondents often remark, “New York isn’t real.” After the press event, while on the L train, a performer’s act began, music blaring as they executed flips amidst the aisle and climbed onto the overhead handrails, improvisations capturing viewers’ attention; their co-performer moved through the car, hat extended for contributions. I contemplated how bodies intertwine within the frameworks ordered by societal structures, the interplay between organic and mechanical being; the absurdities of our survival in such a system challenged conventional assumptions about artistry and how we designate value to it. It was indeed, surreal.
Sixties Surreal remains on view at the Whitney Museum of American Art (99 Gansevoort Street, West Village, Manhattan) until January 19, 2026. The exhibition has been curated by Dan Nadel, Laura Phipps, Scott Rothkopf, and Elisabeth Sussman, supported by Kelly Long and Rowan Diaz-Toth.
