Work Text:
An Exercise in Vulnerability
A look into Steve Rogers’ mind in three parts
By Xavier Kelsy
June 4, 2016
When Steve Rogers came out as bisexual in June of last year, just a few days before gay marriage was legalized across the nation, it seemed that the country had split in two. Of course, this wasn’t a surprise seeing as so much controversy surrounding the LGBTQ+ community still runs rampant in this country. It felt like watching two parties play chess as Rogers expertly and gracefully navigated the bitter vitriol aimed his way. As I watched him turn his nose up to bigots through the screen of my phone, I distinctly felt that I was seeing the strategist I'd read about in all my history textbooks, taking on a world beyond the mask he wore on the battlefield. This was a personal war, where he was gaining the upper hand simply on the basis of staying true to himself. It was heartening. Inspiring. A saving grace to many in the nation who craved representation in its rawest form.
Nearly a year later, when I had heard that Rogers was holding an exhibition regarding his queerness in the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC, I was eager to attend. As a bisexual guy myself, there was something enticing about seeing what sort of experience Rogers could translate through his works. I wasn’t sure how I would pull it off, however, until my boss came into my office one day and dropped a prepaid ticket to the opening onto my desk with a smile and a wink. And as such, the deal was sealed.
The exhibition spanned several rooms, interconnected by open doorways, and included a range of mediums. Glass cases filled with sculptures. Canvases hung on the walls. Picture frames holding large sheets of paper filled with charcoal.
I entered the exhibition amongst throngs of others in attendance who were not on the VIP list, and was barely able to enjoy the reprieve from the muggy DC air when my breath felt ripped out of my chest. Against the pristine white walls, Rogers’ works looked jarring. Colorful and gritty in equal measure. Raw in a way I wish I could recreate with words, and made me feel inadequate in my own humble artistry.
Looking to my left, my legs carry me to the first canvas I see, eager to hide my shock with immersion. I am filled with curiosity and apprehension, wholly unprepared for what emotions these rooms might hold, and ready to freefall into this moment.
So much of the world puts Captain America under a microscope, and it seems that here, Steve Rogers is begging to be seen instead. I feel compelled to follow that wish. I feel compelled to lose myself in each carefully placed brushstroke and pencil line. To find what parts of myself I might be able to see in these very personal pieces, because that is the thrill of a true, emotional artist. Seeing yourself, even when what you are looking at seems larger than life.
The piece before me felt innocent at first. A little boy on his knees, legs splayed out as he brushes the hair back from a doll’s forehead. It was sweet. Kind. Until you looked further and saw the sheer pain that embraced every fiber of the canvas the scene was depicted on. There were tears on the little boy’s face. Red, hectic spots high on his cheekbones, as if he’d been crying for quite some time. As I looked closer, I realized he is not in a house, but rather a store. Other toys filled the background, brightly colored despite the overall dullness of the piece. My eyes flicked to the piece next to it-- a seeming continuation as the shoes of the little boy were shown to be leaving off the side of the canvas. The doll laid lonesome on the ground. Left behind, but clearly so wanted.
It felt simple, but it hurt so bad, and I looked back at the first piece. The little boy had blond hair and a sharp nose. I saw the resemblance then. I saw Rogers in the jut, then dip of the little boy’s cheekbones. With an ache in my chest, I wished to reach through the painting and pick up the doll. Hand it to the little boy and tell him that he can have it. The ache was replaced with a distinct rage; little boys, queer or not, deserve soft things.
The next piece felt lighter-- almost silly. A slightly older Rogers laid upside down on a bed, cross eyed as he stared at his sketchbook, which was visible to the audience. On the page, there was a man, clearly naked. Rogers was sporting a rather massive blush that seemed to span down to his chest, and I found myself laughing at the relatability. It felt oddly close to home. The adolescent curiosity and shame shown so plainly to the audience. We’d all been there at some point, and it was nice to know that he had, too.
I moved through the rest of the first room at a slow, absorbent rate. It all seemed to focus on his adolescence. Growing pains and distinct fear. A piece of Rogers as a teenager, sitting in a bathtub with his face hidden in his knees and his hands covering his ears stood out to me especially. There wasn’t anything so explicitly queer about that piece compared to some of the others, but my stomach curled as I lost myself in the harsh lines of charcoal spanning the page. I knew that feeling. That helplessness. That fear. Wanting to drown out the thoughts that felt so wrong. So different. So dirty.
I wish I could tell myself that I wasn’t wrong. That I wasn’t dirty. I wonder if Rogers ever wishes that as well.
“The next room hits even harder,” someone said. I turned to see another journalist sporting his own notepad and pen, looking distinctly tight around the eyes. I imagine I must have looked similar, and we both glanced at the bathtub piece again. Clearly, it spoke volumes to many.
“Yeah?” I said, clearing my throat.
“Yeah, see for yourself,” the guy said. We hovered for another moment near each other, before I swiftly moved on. In an exhibit teeming with vulnerability, I wasn’t very eager to be seen for very long.
As it stood, the guy was right. Walking through the gaping entryway to the next room, I immediately understood why the exhibit had an age limit. Though there was nothing truly explicit, there was still a sense of unrestrained candidacy of the intimacy depicted in these pieces. Naked figures wrapped around each other, their limbs and extremities fading into smudged, blurred lines, but faces-- warped with pleasure and anguish-- clear and distinct. Most of the figures were random as far as I could tell. Rogers wasn’t bluntly featured in any of them, except for a smaller piece near the corner of the room.
The painting was quieter than the rest of the room, and my lips parted as I drank it in. Though, after a moment, I felt compelled to look away. As if the moment was not mine to see. It was far too personal. Too beautifully private.
It was two young men in a room, one splayed on the bed, arm braced behind his head. He was wearing a soft expression, lips curved up into a smirk that felt entirely fond. Gelled hair fell over his forehead, mussed from the sweat that seemed to shine on his face. He was nude amongst the sheets of the bed, lithe body stretched out and relaxed. On the other end of the bed, the other young man-- shirtless, and clearly less built-- was bent over a sketchbook, though his eyes were on his lover. Before I looked at the plaque, I knew who I was looking at, and the name of the piece was so simple, I smiled.
Bucky and I Before the War, Brooklyn 1940
It was no secret now, the nature of Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes’ relationship. But it was a secret then. One probably carefully and fearfully protected in hearts so eager to reach out and touch the other. It is not mine to heavily speculate about, but looking at this piece, I found myself hoping that they have found comfort in a time where they can let that love be seen.
At this point, I was nearing the end of the exhibit. There was only one room left, I realized with some sadness. Each piece had enthralled me so greatly that I hadn’t realized how far I had gotten. Turning to move on, however, my breath caught in my throat.
Rogers and Barnes stood on the other end of the room, hand in hand as they looked at one of Rogers’ other works. Once more, I found myself compelled to avert my gaze. This felt private, too. Almost as private as the piece I had just looked at.
Barnes turned his head to whisper something in Rogers’ ear, and I watched as Rogers put a hand over his mouth to laugh. Reaching out, Barnes poked Rogers in the stomach, and Rogers doubled over a bit before reaching out to flick Barnes’ ear. I glanced back at the painting behind me. The two boys in Brooklyn, so shrouded by a society that yearned to silence them.
I realized then, standing there, that it was them against the world. It always had been.