Powerful Artworks That Redefine Memory and History at SFMOMA
The Power of Images and the Art of Remembering
On a recent trip to San Francisco, I visited SFMOMA, expecting the highlight to be the Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again exhibition. Warhol’s (1928–1987) show was beautifully curated, offering a fascinating look into his well-crafted persona, his relentless experimentation with materials, and his acute understanding of the power of images in modern life.
Warhol’s contradictions have always intrigued me. His deep religious practice, juxtaposed with his known drug use and social escapades, paints a picture of a man in constant negotiation between inhibition and indulgence. He wielded fame and self-image like a brush, turning his life into an artwork. Yet, while Warhol’s exhibition impressed me, it wasn’t what stayed with me after I left the museum.
The real impact came on the sixth floor, where German Art After 1960 was on display. There, I encountered works by two of my all-time favorite artists: Anselm Kiefer (b. 1945) and Gerhard Richter (b. 1932). The exhibition was overwhelming and thought-provoking, a stark contrast to Warhol’s polished, consumer-driven aesthetic. As I stood before their works, I found myself pondering a question: Who among these two will leave the greater mark on art history? And if I could afford it, which one would I want in my home?
Art as Memory: Confronting History Through Abstraction
Few countries have confronted their darkest chapters with as much rigor and introspection as Germany. Across generations, German artists have wrestled with the weight of history, creating works that seek to ensure the world never forgets. Whether through painting, literature, film, photography, or theater, they have continuously asked: How does a nation remember? How does it process collective guilt and shame?
Germany’s approach has been direct—through education, through dialogue, and through art that does not shy away from difficult truths. But for painters, particularly abstract painters, there exists an immense challenge: How do you honor the gravity of death without depicting it explicitly? How do you create an image that carries the emotional weight of a historical event without showing the event itself?
Anselm Kiefer and Gerhard Richter have both grappled with these questions, but they do so in vastly different ways.
Anselm Kiefer: The Weight of History
Kiefer’s work is monumental—not just in size but in emotional and intellectual depth. His landscapes are thick with symbolism, layered with history, and textured with a sense of ruin. His canvases feel like excavated memories, raw and exposed, where past and present collapse into each other.
I remember the first time I stumbled upon Kiefer’s work at LA MOCA. I knew nothing about the artist at the time, yet the impact was immediate. His paintings didn’t just invite contemplation; they demanded it. One piece, in particular, struck me so forcefully that it felt like a physical blow to the stomach. That was the moment I understood: This is what exceptional art does.
Kiefer’s “Sulamith” remains one of his most haunting works. When viewed alongside a recitation of Paul Celan’s poem “Death Fugue,” it transforms into something almost unbearable in its sorrow. It pulls you into the abyss of history, forcing you to witness it without ever showing you a literal image of the horrors that inspired it.
More about Anselm Kiefer in my essay: When Intergenerational Trauma Meets Art
Gerhard Richter: The Art of Seeing and Unseeing
Richter’s approach is different. He does not overwhelm—he unsettles.
His abstract paintings are built through an almost archaeological process. He layers paint, scrapes it away, then layers it again, revealing glimpses of the past while obscuring them at the same time. This method mirrors the way memory itself works—fragmented, elusive, and always shifting.
His “Birkenau” series, displayed at the Reichstag in 2017, is among the most powerful artistic responses to the Holocaust in modern history. The paintings are derived from actual photographs taken inside Auschwitz, but instead of reproducing them, Richter buries them under layers of abstraction. The images are there, hidden beneath the surface, their presence felt rather than seen.
This concept—of revealing by obscuring—is something he also explored in his earlier works. His blurred portraits of family members and Nazi officers feel like distant recollections, details softened by time yet never fully erased. The effect is both ghostly and deliberate as if forcing the viewer to wrestle with the question: What do we choose to remember, and what do we allow to fade?
The Silence of Richter, The Weight of Kiefer
As I stood in that gallery, I thought about time—how it shapes perception, how it alters the way we see art. Which of these two artists will history favor? I believe Kiefer’s works will have a more significant long-term impact. They are heavy, unflinching, and deeply rooted in historical reckoning. His paintings do not just reflect history; they physically embody it.
Yet, if I had to choose one for my living space, it would be a Richter.
His paintings invite reflection without demanding it. They offer space rather than weight, a kind of visual meditation where one can lose and find oneself over and over again. I find comfort in his silence, whereas Kiefer’s work does not allow for comfort—it is a confrontation, an open wound that never fully heals.
Art, like memory, does not exist in a vacuum. It interacts with time, with history, and with those who witness it. Kiefer makes us remember. Richter makes us forget. And Warhol? He reminds us that images—no matter how ubiquitous—shape the way we see the world.
September 2019