A Workingman’s Surrealist | Jeremy Lybarger
You could say that H. C. Westermann became an artist on the morning of March 19, 1945. While serving as a marine gunner on the USS Enterprise during World War II, the twenty-two-year-old witnessed an enemy aircraft dive-bomb the nearby USS Franklin off the coast of Japan, killing more than seven hundred men—most of them broiled in the explosions, others asphyxiated by the rampant smoke and fuel vapor or drowned in the ocean. Westermann later recalled the “horrible smell of death” that seethed from that inferno—a smell that lingered in his imagination for decades as he transfigured the experience into sculptures, prints, and drawings of enigmatic brio. A recurring image in Westermann’s work is the death ship: stalled, adrift, encroached on by sharks. He sometimes portrays it as a masted merchant ship, at other times as a metal-hulled freighter, hobbled in arctic ice or becalmed in a shabby sundown port. The death ship is his most autobiographical motif, though it hardly conveys the idiosyncrasy of his vision, which cribs from science fiction, pulp novels, and …




