The moon has always been the stuff of fantasies. The ancients thought the goddess of the moon rode her silver chariot across the sky every night. Centuries later, astronomer William Herschel thought he could see evidence of life on the moon through his powerful new telescope.
More recently, Catalan-Spanish artist Joan Miró looked to the moon and the stars as a coping mechanism, using them to escape from the brutality of World War II into the comfort of a fantasy world.
I felt a deep desire to flee. I shut myself within myself. Music and the stars began to play a major role in suggesting my paintings.
Joan Miró, the James Johnson Sweeney interview, 1948
During the war, Miró produced 23 gouaches collectively known as the Constellations. Similar to watercolor, gouache contains additives that render it opaque.
To create each piece, the artist first applied a soft ground of dry-brushed color that mimics the randomness of nature. Next, he painted fanciful black lines and vibrant flat shapes that change color whenever they cross a line—red switches to black, black switches to blue, blue switches to red. Miró’s Constellations pulse like a universe with music in its soul.
During World War II, the Constellations became the first works by a prominent European artist to reach America. They reportedly made the journey in secret, smuggled across the Atlantic in a diplomatic pouch.
The Constellations were quietly brought to New York and exhibited in the Pierre Matisse Gallery. For many people, the series was like a flower in the desert….an expression of survival during the storm of war.
Stephanie Stillo, Rare Book and Special Collections Division, Library of Congress, 2022
What if humankind needs a do-over?
Shortly after World War II, the Space Race between the United States and the Soviet Union inspired Argentinian artist Raquel Forner to create paintings that ooze with optimism about space travel.
In Astronaut and Witnesses, Televised, the gray figures represent men, women, and children shattered by the atrocities of war. The indigo figures are future humans who have bent time and space to lend their ailing ancestors a hand. An wide-eyed astronaut grabs onto one of the “blood ties” coursing through the picture.
Drawing from European Expressionism, Forner’s vivid colors and syrupy brushstrokes prioritize emotion over physical reality. By omitting futuristic-looking technology from her outer space paintings, she creates a universe that feels friendly and interconnected.
Does Forner think interplanetary travel will improve our social and emotional intelligence? “When man sees the smallness of our planet, he will realize we need to rethink our relationships,” she once said.
The National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C., houses several of Forner’s paintings, including Return of the Astronauts, the image of an astronaut in a fetal pose descending to Mother Earth. Just seconds before splashdown, he points back toward the moon.
Something amazing waits to be discovered
Alma Thomas, a Black American artist born in 1891, said the Apollo 11 mission to the moon set her creativity in motion.
A new era has been born in America, and it demands to be expressed in new forms. The rush of rockets through space….the speed of high-powered cars….the crowding of extraordinary skyscrapers….the rotating electronic billboards. They all have another message besides the material one.
Alma Thomas, 1972
In Launch Pad, ascending streaks of pure color convey the heart-stopping moment when the Apollo 11 crew lifted off on its historic mission to the moon in 1969. The painting vibrates and it is loud. “When I paint outer space, I am with the astronauts,” explained Thomas. Her striking juxtaposition of colors echoes the luminous hues of rocket ignition.
Unlike most artists associated with the Washington Color School, Thomas does not paint her signature stripes by bounding them with masking tape. She paints freehand, in orderly brushstrokes that seem to quiver.
Her paintings are expert abstractions, Tachiste in style and faultless in their handling of color. One wonders at the amazing ease with which Alma Thomas, a woman born in the horse-and-buggy days, embraced total abstraction.
Art critic James R. Mellow, “The New York Times,” 1972
Where no flag has flown before
Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin described the giddy experience of walking on the moon as “not too far from a trampoline, but without the springiness.” Commander Neil Armstrong photographed Aldrin bounding across the rocky terrain.
To create Moonwalk, American artist Andy Warhol merged two of Armstrong’s photographs—one of Aldrin and one of the American flag. Then he silk-screened the composite image onto art paper, using the neon colors that defined 1980s visual culture: shocking pink, electric blue, and fluorescent yellow.
In the original NASA photo, Aldrin’s visor reflects Armstrong’s gear. In Warhol’s print, this reflection transforms into the artist’s initials, emblazoned across the visor like a flash of lightning.
The American flag appears to flutter in the breeze, which is nonsensical because the moon has no atmosphere. The NASA photo sparked a surge in conspiracy theories about the moon landing being a hoax, despite there being a simple explanation:
It took both of us to set up the flag, and it was nearly a public relations disaster. A telescoping arm was supposed to keep the flag extended so it could be seen in photographs, but as hard as we tried, the telescope would not fully extend. Thus the flag, which should have been flat, now has a permanent wave.
Apollo 11 astronaut Buzz Aldrin
One giant leap for art history
A miniature art museum may have been smuggled onto the moon during the Apollo 12 lunar mission. Known as the Moon Museum, the project was the brainchild of sculptor Forrest Myers who asked for, but did not receive, NASA approval. “But they never said no. Basically, I couldn’t get them to say anything,” said Myers.
Undeterred, he invited five prominent artists to contribute drawings that could be miniaturized and etched onto a 0.75″ x 0.5″ ceramic tile by scientists at Bell Labs. An anonymous engineer agreed to hide the tile on the Intrepid lunar module, which would remain on the moon once the astronauts returned home.
For the project, Andy Warhol contributed the stylized signature seen in the upper left corner. His initials transform into a rocket ship and then some—a creative decision so wrong, it’s almost right.
Moving on, clockwise, Robert Rauschenberg drew a freehand line. David Novros painted a black square that resembles circuitry. John Chamberlain traced a template. Claes Oldenberg drew a stylized mouse that might be Mickey. Forrest Myers provided a first-generation computer drawing.
MOMA this isn’t, but not for lack of historical significance.
The anonymous engineer promised to send a telegram once the tile was aboard the Intrepid. True to his word, on November 12, 1969, this telegram was sent from Cape Canaveral: “YOU’RE ON. ALL SYSTEMS ARE GO.”
So, what do you think? Did Myers pull it off? Did he smuggle a miniature museum of art onto the moon?
It’s not only possible, but at this point in time I would say, well, my gut feeling is….it’s up there.
Apollo 12 launch pad foreman Richard Kupczyk, the PBS interview, 2010
