The Intimate Terror of Guerrilla Warfare
Albert Bierstadt did not paint Guerrilla Warfare to celebrate the majesty of the American landscape. He painted it because the country was tearing itself apart and he had a front row seat. It was 1861 and he had just returned from visiting Union Army encampments near Washington. The air was thick with gunpowder and dread. He left behind his massive exhibition canvases and sweeping mountain vistas. Instead he grabbed a small piece of wood measuring barely fifteen inches across. He traded the pristine glory of the West for the intimate terror of a woodland ambush.
The resulting oil painting is claustrophobic and dark. It abandons the glowing light of his famous frontier scenes for shadows that swallow the edges of the panel. The grim national mood bleeds into every brushstroke. A sharp contrast of light and shadow highlights hidden snipers waiting in the brush. These are not heroic soldiers marching in formation under a golden sun. They are men hiding in the dirt waiting to kill their neighbors.
Bierstadt understood exactly what this war meant. He stripped away the romanticism and left only the raw reality of survival. The small scale forces you to step close and peer into the darkness just like a soldier scanning the treeline for movement. There is no grand western horizon to escape into here. There is only the brush and the shadows and the violent crack of a rifle waiting to happen.
References
Bierstadt, Albert. Guerrilla Warfare. 1861. Oil on wood panel, 38.1 x 38.7 cm.
Hendricks, Gordon. Albert Bierstadt Painter of the American West. New York: Harrison House, 1988.
Anderson, Nancy K., and Linda S. Ferber. Albert Bierstadt Art and Enterprise. New York: Hudson Hills Press, 1990.
