On Wednesday, Sept. 24, I had the pleasure of experiencing the “Sixties Surreal” exhibit at the Whitney Museum of American Art. After lamenting about delays on the 6 train and trudging through a bustling Chelsea on a clammy day, I wanted nothing more than to fully immerse myself in another time period through Surrealist art that would make me question not only where I was, but what I was a part of. And, yes, the expansive exhibit did precisely that. 

After making my way to the fifth floor, I entered a room with nothing but an elongated tangerine wall and three daunting, unnervingly lifelike camels: “Camel VI,” “Camel VII” and “Camel VIII.” Having not yet read the placard, I couldn’t help but wonder what camels could have to do with the American ’60s. Whenever I enter a museum, I challenge myself to refrain from reading the placards before viewing the art, wishing to draw my own interpretations and frame the pieces in a context that I can understand or come to myself. This begs the question: Should we interpret art solely in its own political and sociocultural context, or is art meant to be personalized to the viewer? I try to engage with a little of both, precisely what I did throughout the “Sixties Surreal” exhibit. But there was something about the camels that I could not wrap my head around, and thus, I spent a good while pondering the placard nearby. I concluded that this piece astutely sums up the intention and implication of 1960s Surrealist art. 

Nancy Graves, the artist who sculpted these camels, once expressed that “camels shouldn’t exist.” We have all heard that form follows function, and despite their unorthodox anatomy, this idea rings true with camels. Though seemingly absurd, the traits that make camels seem so otherworldly or odd are exactly what make them well-adapted to their harsh, arid environments. Graves created a sculpture so realistic that one may believe it is taxidermy, but she challenges this by using a combination of other materials, reminding us that what meets the eye may not be all there is. Though form may follow function, having one logical purpose is often insufficient in maintaining one’s identity during turbulent, seemingly illogical times. Absurdity, as counterintuitive as it may seem, may be the very thing that keeps us all sane.

Many historians believe that Surrealism’s origin lies in the shortcomings of Dadaism, a post-Great War movement centered around irrationality, anarchism and anti-war sentiments. From Dada arose Surrealism in the minds of 1920s Parisians such as André Breton and Louis Aragon, who believed Dadaism to be “politically directionless.” Drawing from the works of Sigmund Freud and other French psychologists, Surrealism aimed to forsake the constraints of social convention by operating through the subconscious and inner identity. “Sixties Surreal” demonstrates the vitality of disintegrating the status quo during a time when reality is so unrelenting and bleak that all one can do is become the exact opposite: colorful, eccentric, revolutionary, anti-establishment and what appears to be absurd in the minds of those creating this devastating reality.

In another room, “If All the World Were Paper and All the Water Sink” depicts an observer of an apocalyptic scene. A nuclear mushroom cloud encircles a distant city, enclosed by the Greek letter omega, symbolizing the end, the last or fulfillment, and in this case, nuclear destruction. Meanwhile, at the front of the scene children hold hands and dance despite their collective fate. Many characterize 1950s America with a high anxiety surrounding nuclear weapons, setting the framework for the artist Jess’ conglomeration of distress. In May 1961, national television broadcasted President John F. Kennedy encouraging the creation of a national shelter program after several 1950s nuclear tests displayed high radiation levels. The widespread fear devolved into ominous, gloomy views of the future amidst an unstable political climate. In Jess’ piece, the dancing children’s innocence juxtaposes a certain death, which is surreal, yet it also represents protest and revolution by their mere existence. Can innocence, unintentionality and absurdism coexist with purpose and function? The answer is yes, and “Sixties Surreal” proves this.

 My brain conjured up the song “When the World Was at War We Kept Dancing” by Lana Del Rey. Del Rey sings of an America consumed by governmental dissatisfaction of many citizens, pondering whether it’s the “end of an era” in America or if there will be a “happy ending.” Del Rey concludes, “When the world was at war before / We just kept dancin’.” Despite the clash between optimism and pessimism in the verses, a confusing, frustrating and seemingly unreal reality is ultimately accepted, imitating Graves’ oxymoronic message in the form of three camels. With these lyrics still relevant for me in 2025, I suppose we all must keep dancin’.