Each of these seems to be a new abstract painting. There are dozens of them on the overpass that spans the railroad tracks, all with their cracks, rust, and exposed rebar. They seem like an amalgam of Rothko (blocky bands) and Johns (gray paintings) and Newman (“zips”) and maybe a bit of Twombly at the bottom?
They tell a story, perhaps many stories. Today, though, I’m haunted by the story of 53 years ago. Everyone my age remembers where we were when we heard. I happened — this is truly bizarre — to be doing a math problem in set theory, during study hall, that addressed “the set of all presidents who died in office.” He was already the stuff of legends, both good and bad, and this certainly cemented the legend, as it were. Weighted in concrete.