By Teniola Ayoola
This article was originally published in the DC Line here.
Did William Gropper leap into the future, or have we been pulled back into the past? Are we truly progressing as a society, or merely cycling through the same struggles in new forms? Seeing William Gropper: Artist of the People, a recently opened exhibition at The Phillips Collection, in the wake of the tumultuous 2024 presidential election feels less like a journey through history and more like staring into a mirror that reflects our own fractured reality. The content of Gropper’s provocative body of work — spanning painting, political cartoons and printmaking — remains strikingly relevant today. This 20th-century artist never softened his message to appease sensibilities or prioritize aesthetics. Instead, his art is deliberately unsettling, challenging viewers to confront uncomfortable truths about power, inequality, and the moral decay that perpetuates them.
Gropper (1897–1977) was born in New York City to Jewish immigrants. Though he distanced himself from religious Judaism as an adult, he used his art to confront antisemitism and speak out against the Nazi regime and the Holocaust. The death of his aunt in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911 sparked his lifelong advocacy for workers’ rights. His bold paintings, prints and cartoons tackled themes of racism, labor exploitation and the rise of fascism. A radical nonconformist even during his art education, Gropper’s dedication to using his craft as a tool for social change earned him the title “Artist of the People.”
Gropper’s approach in his political cartoons is vivid and direct — a kind of accountability rare in any era and increasingly rare today. Rather than resorting to “subs” or subliminal critiques, Gropper would “@” his targets directly if he were around now. His work speaks to our age of social media and polarized politics. Take Travel Companions (1936), where he positions U.S. Rep. William Lemke of North Dakota alongside Adolf Hitler and the antisemitic radio personality Father Coughlin. This is Gropper at his most confrontational, exposing alliances that he saw as challenging the very fabric of democracy. In Lincoln Observing Corrupt Politicians, Silver Shirts, and the KKK (1940), he places President Abraham Lincoln as a silent witness to fascist sympathizers like Coughlin and U.S. Rep. Martin Dies of Texas, his presence a reminder of what’s at stake when power is abused. By the time we reach We’re Just Crazy About Fascism (circa 1940), Gropper strips away all pretense, showing figures like Charles Lindbergh and William Randolph Hearst as unashamed proponents of fascism. The pieces don’t just critique — each one documents the moral battles of his time, giving viewers an unvarnished look at who held power and how they wielded it.
The moral battles of Gropper’s era echo seamlessly into ours, a point the exhibition underscores with insight: “Over half a century since their creation, Gropper’s work exposes universal human concerns, including the fragility of our democracy, which continue to persist,” Phillips Collection director and CEO Jonathan P. Binstock explains in a press release on the exhibition. Yet while strongly conveying Gropper’s timeless themes, the curators miss an opportunity to deepen this relevance. Making clear the contemporary parallels — perhaps by juxtaposing Gropper’s art with recent political cartoons or commentary on today’s authoritarian trends — would make the exhibition even more resonant. It is not enough to just display Gropper’s work. By linking specific works to our current socio-political climate, curators could emphasize the cyclical nature of the issues Gropper confronted, inviting viewers to consider his legacy as an urgent call to action.
One of the exhibition’s standout works, Congressional Declaration (1947), hits at the core of American hypocrisy. The post-World War II cartoon shows two politicians editing the Declaration of Independence, lifting a brush to add exclusions to the tenet of “all men are created equal” — except for “negroes,” “Jews,” “women” and other groups. Published in the magazine New Masses during the Red Scare, this work takes aim at America’s shaky relationship with its founding ideals, exposing how racism, sexism, antisemitism and anti-labor sentiments erode our democratic foundation. As the 2024 election cycle has shown, democracy demands vigilance, and Gropper’s message — that equality and justice are neither self-fulfilling nor self-perpetuating — could not feel more relevant.
Visually, Gropper’s use of black and white heightens his critique, creating images that strike harder than color could. Admittedly driven in many cases by the practicalities of mass printing, the stark contrast in his work reflects a binary Gropper saw between justice and injustice, power and the powerless. The lack of color doesn’t feel like a limitation but a strategic choice, amplifying each line and shadow. In Capriccios (1953–57), a series of 50 lithographs, the absence of color serves as an aesthetic and moral weight, forcing viewers to grapple with his subjects’ grotesque expressions, exaggerated gestures and the shadows that loom large, like the ideologies he opposes. It’s a message for today’s cartoonists: Sometimes, what’s left out speaks louder than what’s included.
The exhibition’s design is equally impactful. Separating Gropper’s monochromatic works from his few color pieces creates a powerful contrast that accentuates the scope of his vision. After immersing ourselves in the severity of black and white, we encounter Construction of the Dam (1938), in which Gropper uses color sparingly yet purposefully. A study for a mural at the U.S. Department of the Interior headquarters, it portrays Black and white workers laboring together on a Works Progress Administration project, an image of unity that stood against the norms of segregation. Here, color doesn’t distract from — it amplifies — Gropper’s vision of inclusion and equality. His rare use of color underscores his critique of an exclusionary society, showing that even mundane choices can carry political weight.
Ultimately, William Gropper: Artist of the People offers more than an art exhibition; it’s a rallying cry that resonates with the urgency of our current political moment. While Oscar Wilde’s essay The Critic as Artist may argue for critique that beautifies, Gropper transforms critique into a demand for justice. His works compel us not only to recognize society’s flaws but to address them — a call that feels especially relevant as we face the divisive climate in the aftermath of the 2024 election. With its unfiltered lines and relentless satire, Gropper’s art wields a lance against complacency, daring us to confront societal failures head-on. This exhibition reminds us: The loudest statements are often made by what’s stripped away.
William Gropper: Artist of the People at The Phillips Collection opened Oct. 17 and continues through Jan. 5. The museum is located at 1600 21st St. NW.
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