PRINT Summer 2008


We rarely associate the Independent Group, much less Pop art, with political commitment, yet politics has been a persistent concern of Richard Hamilton’s work for fifty years. “Protest Pictures,” an exhibition on view at Inverleith House in Edinburgh from July 31 through October 12, gathers his key images concerning public issues—from the antinuclear movement and the Vietnam War, through the Troubles in Northern Ireland, to the current disaster in Iraq. HAL FOSTER looks ahead to this survey of polemical works by the eighty-six-year-old master.

Richard Hamilton, Swingeing London 67 (c), 1968–69, oil on canvas and screenprint, 26 1⁄2 x 33 1⁄2".

THE INDEPENDENT GROUP, that extraordinary crew of young artists, architects, and critics in London in the early 1950s, sought a way between the Scylla of old modernist styles and the Charybdis of new mass-cultural images. To do so, it adopted a non-Aristotelian approach to its many objects of study—science and technology, architecture and design, popular culture and advertising—an approach that was neither satirical nor celebratory, but at once analytical and playful. It was this distinctive attitude that Richard Hamilton, a crucial member of the IG, carried forward when, following his famous little collage Just what is it that makes today’s homes so different, so appealing? produced in 1956 for the landmark “This Is Tomorrow” exhibition, he began his “tabular” pictures in the late ’50s.¹ This suite of paintings, still too little known, explores the emergent visual idioms of postwar consumer society—the erotic curves of the latest sedan in Hommage à Chrysler Corp., 1957, for instance, or the sleek seduction of the latest refrigerator in $he, 1958–61—in a mode of suave pastiche that demonstrates the mixing not only of modernist styles and commercial devices but also of sexual fetishism and commodity fetishism in the new economy of consumer society. If not strictly non-Aristotelian, these images still propose an “ironism of affirmation,” a mode of wry engagement that Hamilton learned in part from Duchamp, with whose work he was deeply involved.² (Hamilton published a transcription of the Green Box of notes for the “Large Glass” in 1960, and finished a reconstruction of the “Glass” in 1966.) Hence to the old question asked of the IG and Pop alike—critical or complicit?—the answer given by Hamilton, then and now, is both, and intensely so.

To his chagrin, the tabular paintings were received less as immanent exposés of visual languages than as caricatural comments on consumer society at large, and so, when a political subject did press on Hamilton, he decided to represent it as satirically as possible; the result was Portrait of Hugh Gaitskell as a Famous Monster of Filmland, 1964. When Hamilton began this image in early 1962, Gaitskell still led the Labour Party, but he defied its rank and file with a cold-war policy of nuclear deterrence. Committed to the antinuclear movement, Hamilton took aim: He overlaid elements drawn from a cover of the magazine Famous Monsters of Filmland showing Claude Rains as the Phantom of the Opera onto a photographic enlargement of a newspaper picture of Gaitskell. Half of his face is tinted in cadaverous yellows, greens, and whites trimmed by red, while the other half, the mask of the Phantom built up in relief, is covered with pinks and blues evocative of scarred flesh. One dead eye, inspired by the movie Jack the Ripper (1959), stares blindly at us out of the mask; the other is dark and distracted. The top of the head is cut away in the manner of the eponymous lead of the movie Creature with the Atom Brain (1955), while the bottom sits heavily on the typical white collar of the businessman or bureaucrat; and, finally, the whole is set on a bloodred ground. Once a progressive figure, Gaitskell appears here, misshapen by his own misdeeds, as a monstrous omen of nuclear horrors to come.

In subsequent work by Hamilton this satirical edge subsides, yet a political dimension persists. It is often subtle, however, because Hamilton is concerned with capturing less the political event than its mediation—how it is produced for us precisely as an image—and it is this mediation that he both elaborates and exposes. Such a preoccupation is already evident in Swingeing London 67, 1968–69, which appears in the form of paintings and prints. (It is common for Hamilton to explore different effects in different mediums; in this case there are no fewer than six painted versions on canvas and one on board.) In February 1967, London police raided a party at the home of Keith Richards and arrested Mick Jagger and Robert Fraser (an art dealer who worked with Hamilton) for drug possession. The title thus plays on the swinging partygoers (the phrase “Swinging London” was a recent coinage) as well as the severe judgment passed on them (“there are times when a swingeing sentence can act as a deterrent,” the judge intoned).³ Coverage of the case ran in the newspapers for weeks (Hamilton also made a poster sampling the clippings), and Swingeing London 67 is a reflection on the vicissitudes of celebrity visibility as much as it is a protest against retributive justice.

On each of the canvases Hamilton screenprinted a press photograph of Jagger and Fraser shot through the window of a police van as they arrived at the Chichester courthouse. Our view is thus one with the source photo, and Hamilton heightens its garish effects: The image is blurred, the colors lurid yet blanched as though by the sudden flash of the camera, and, in all but one version (the one on board), the window frame is removed, so that we seem to be thrust into the van by the sheer avidity of our own look.⁴ As if in reaction, the two men, who otherwise thrive on celebrity visibility, attempt to deflect it, lifting their hands, manacled together, to hide their faces and to ward off the glare of our gaze. This gesture might recall the prototypical expression of aggrieved shame worn by Adam in, say, Masaccio’s Expulsion from the Garden of Eden—it would be like Hamilton to spike a pop-contemporary scene with an art-historical allusion in this way—but, as always, he injects an ambiguity, even an irony, here, too. Jagger seems to smirk under his palm, and the handcuffs double as bracelets (in one version they are built up in shiny aluminum) displayed for the benefit of press photographers. In short, Hamilton anticipates a media regime in which transgression and adoration are hardly opposed, manacles are sometimes forged into bling, and sheer visibility, desired or not, trumps all.

The discursive frame of Hugh Gaitskell is the public realm of the newspaper, and however invaded by mass culture it may be, the painting still looks back to the traditional category of caricature. With Swingeing London 67, only four years later, there is a shift toward a different media world: that of spectacle. This shift is also evident in the next polemical work, Kent State, 1970, where the discursive frame becomes televisual, as is registered by the scan lines of the image and its curved border surrounded by black. Asked to make a print, Hamilton set up his camera in front of his TV for an entire week in May 1970. By chance, the events at Kent State—the shooting of student protesters by the Ohio National Guard—unfolded on the screen, and he made several exposures. “I felt a reluctance to use any of them,” Hamilton wrote later. “It was too terrible an incident in American history to submit to arty treatment. Yet there it was in my hand, by chance—I didn’t really choose the subject, it offered itself. It seemed right, too, that art could help to keep the shame in our minds; the wide distribution of a large edition print might be the strongest indictment I could make.”⁵

The print shows a blurry shape that, cued by the title, we soon identify as a fallen student. (It is Dean Kahler, who was paralyzed, not killed, in the shooting.) He lies inert on the ground, legs truncated, tended by two figures, even more partial and obscure, at his head and by his side. The image might recall another one, long burned into collective memory, of a young woman kneeling over a shot student and screaming in outraged grief, yet Kent State is iconic in its own right (if Swingeing London 67 triggers a mnemonic trace of an Expulsion, Kent State might call up one of a dead Christ). Although the print edition of five thousand is indeed large, Hamilton chose a painstaking process involving fifteen layers of transparent colors. This layering underscores how “degraded” the image is, as Hamilton remarks, “translated through so many different projections and reassimilations by other devices.”⁶ At the same time, it lends a haunting spectrality to the usual blur of the televisual image, and it allows red splotches suggestive of blood to cut the anesthetic blues of the TV. As re-mediated here, the image becomes both hot and cool, piercing and deadening. On the one hand, the intensity of the image makes it seem immediate, almost punctal in the Barthesian sense; on the other, the obscurity of the image prompts a skeptical distance vis-à-vis televisual news, in keeping with several works in the mid-’60s in which Hamilton explored the epistemological limits of photographic information when reproduced and enlarged. (The Baader-Meinhof cycle of paintings by Gerhard Richter, which postdates Kent State by eighteen years, has much the same double effect.) Implicit here, then, is a shift not only in media hegemony from the “screened” image, as in the print culture essayed in Hugh Gaitskell, to the “scanned” image, as in the televisual spectacle captured in Kent State, but also in the positioning of the viewer, who, in the latter regime, is both entirely external to such events and traumatically intimate with them (“extimate,” a Lacanian might say).⁷

By the time Margaret Thatcher came to power in 1979, the prophecies of the Just what is it? collage and the “This Is Tomorrow” exhibition had struck Hamilton as frivolous; also dispelled, with this hard turn to the political right, was any dream of a non-Aristotelian relation to the world. “There is no such thing as society,” Thatcher would later famously proclaim, and her government, an avant-garde of contemporary neoliberalism, took that sentiment as its mission in its attacks on organized labor and social welfare. This situation prompted Hamilton, twenty years after the Gaitskell painting, to work up another portrait of a British leader, yet it was not Thatcher so much as the Thatcherite state that he portrayed. Invited to produce an installation, Hamilton decided to evoke a clinic: Treatment Room, 1983–84, consists of a simple white gurney (more mortuary slab than hospital bed) partially covered by a standard gray blanket below, an intrusive TV monitor (which represents an X-ray machine) above, and a protective wall with a viewing panel to the side. This bleak room is general enough to convey the “seedily clinical style of the establishment institution,” Hamilton writes, “a space as impersonal (yet loaded), or as neutral (yet disquieting) as a dentist’s waiting room, a prison cell, a DHSS Labour Exchange or anywhere in an NHS hospital.”⁸

Richard Hamilton, Kent State, 1970, screenprint on paper, 26 1⁄2 x 34 1⁄4".

On the monitor is a looped video of Thatcher delivering the Conservative Party’s final speech before the 1983 general election. In effect, then, the notional patient undergoes two kinds of treatment at once, “institutional control and political propaganda.”⁹ Like 1984, to which it is a timely homage, Treatment Room thus combines the two regimes of surveillance and spectacle and, in so doing, suggests that they are not as exclusive as Foucault and Debord might have thought. Of course, Hamilton had long reflected on spectacle in his own idiom; here he foregrounds surveillance, in particular the clinical gaze, again in his own terms. Yet, as in Foucault, this is a portrait of power not as embodied in any individual (as it was still with Hugh Gaitskell) but as reticulated throughout a vast system of subject formation—the various disciplinary institutions, like the clinic, where we are shaped and reshaped as social beings (the patient per se is absent here, registered only by the ruffled blanket). In the Thatcherism starkly X-rayed in Treatment Room, there may not be a society, but there is certainly a state, and here its agencies, its ideological apparatuses, have become a subject of history in their own right.

At this moment in the early ’80s the Troubles in Northern Ireland had reached such a crisis that Hamilton was drawn to address them. Even before he devised Treatment Room, Hamilton was at work on a painting—The citizen, 1982–83, focused on another disciplinary institution, the prison—that became the first of three major canvases on the Troubles, followed by The subject, 1988–90, and The state, 1993.¹⁰ Each work is a grand diptych, with each panel two by one meters; both format and scale thus evoke the traditions of the altarpiece and the history painting. Throughout the suite a life-size man appears on the right panel, and an obscure environment on the left, and each part is built up from disparate pictures and marks. This arrangement allows Hamilton to juxtapose genres, techniques, and effects—figure and space, representational and abstract, focused and blurred—and yet, despite the diversity of sources and means, the images are quite resolved as such: They possess a powerful iconicity.

In The citizen, a young man, shaggy and bearded, stands on a bare mattress, rumpled bedding and scattered debris at his feet. He wears no clothes; a blanket cloaks his body, and a sheet is wrapped around his waist. As often in Hamilton, his demeanor is ambiguous: Is his stare defiant or troubled? Does he stride forward or step back? In any case, his space is very confined. The left panel is obscure in another way: Its pale ground is covered with brown swirls, thin at the bottom, thick at the right, and they extend into the adjacent panel as well. Slowly it dawns on us that this is a messy prison cell (the grated aperture behind the man is another clue). But who, then, is “the citizen”? He could be a madman (Americans sometimes confuse him with Charles Manson) or a martyr (he does resemble a Hollywood version of Christ). In fact, the figure is based on an image of a little-known member of the IRA, Hugh Rooney, and the source is again televisual: a BBC documentary, broadcast in December 1980, on the high-security prison near Belfast known as the Maze, where IRA inmates were held. Beginning in 1976, these inmates demanded reinstatement of their status as political—not criminal—offenders, along with the rights attendant to such status. The British authorities refused this demand, and the inmates in turn refused to obey prison regulations: They stopped wearing their uniforms, washing their bodies, cutting their hair, emptying their waste pails. “On the blanket,” they soon initiated a further protest of smearing their excrement on the walls, and, when this action had no effect, a hunger strike was begun. Bobby Sands was the first to die, and nine more protesters perished before the Thatcher government relented at all.

The inmate appears here in the midst of these protests. He is a citizen mostly in the sense that he refuses to be a subject of the British crown. Certainly there is a martyrological aspect to his imaging, yet clearly he is no saint. Indeed, Hamilton connects him with the unsavory character also called the “citizen” in the Cyclops episode of Ulysses, a Fenian loudmouth whom Joyce associates not only with the legendary Irish chieftain Finn MacCool (whom Hamilton has also portrayed) but with the idiot giant Polyphemus blinded by Ulysses. Once again Hamilton has a figure embody contradictory values and elicit ambivalent responses. On the one hand, like Antigone, the citizen is without a state to call his own, and this condition makes him a rebuke to the authorities. In fact he might approximate homo sacer (in the sense developed by Giorgio Agamben), a sacrificial figure stripped to bare life who attests to the state of exception in which power is also laid bare—exposed in its direct application. On the other hand, this site of subjection is also a theater of promotion: For Hamilton, the image of the blanket man was very effective as public relations, a compelling mix of contemporary religious icon and perverse soap ad.¹¹

This “strange image of human dignity in the midst of self-created squalor,” Hamilton observes, is also “endowed with a mythic power most often associated with art.”¹² The association goes beyond the echoes of icon and history painting, for the fecal smears in The citizen are weirdly beautiful, and they appear in such a way that the walls of the cell become one with the surface of the painting (additionally, Hamilton relates the swirls, provocatively enough, to Celtic ornament). For Freud there is no civilization without the repression of the anal, and as a result “what is ‘anal’ remains the symbol of everything that is to be repudiated and excluded from life.”¹³ By the same token, however, the excremental can be turned into a symbol of resistance to the social order, as it was in the IRA protest, as it often is in avant-gardist gestures.¹⁴ There is a further connection to art here as well. For early psychoanalysts, the artistic sense effectively begins with the diversion of libidinal interest in excrement toward a cultural manipulation of other materials; for Ernest Jones a “primitive smearing impulse” is the basis of all “molding and manipulating,” all “painting and printing.”¹⁵ In The citizen, then, Hamilton evokes an ambiguous figure of homo sacer as well as a primal act of defiant expression.

If the protagonist of The citizen refuses the status of the subject, the protagonist of The subject, the second painting in the Troubles trilogy, embraces it. An elderly Protestant man on a Loyalist march in Belfast, he is a select member of the Orange Order, a secret society named for William of Orange, the Dutch king invited to become William III of England in 1689 in order to uphold the Protestant faith against the Catholic James II. (It is “King Billy” and his victory at the Battle of the Boyne that such marches honor.) Like The citizen, The subject is assembled from different images—a black-and-white photo, a color transparency, another transparency of The citizen, and a still from a televised video, all of which Hamilton montaged digitally with a Quantel Paintbox, a new device at the time. However, the shift to electronic montage is mostly technical; though conspicuously constructed, The subject is as persuasively iconic as The citizen. Hamilton gives us the details: “The present-day uniform of a member of the Orange Lodge of Freemasons in Belfast consists of a black suit, bowler hat, and well-polished shoes; an orange sash adorned with insignia hangs on his chest and there are large, matching, seventeenth-century-style cuffs on his white kid gloves. Every Orangeman carries a black umbrella on parade except those privileged to possess a ‘King Billy’ sword which is always held unsheathed and erect.”¹⁶ Hamilton based the left panel on a frame from a televised video of a nighttime scene, shot in infrared, of an armored vehicle on patrol in Belfast. Lights multiply in the murk, and some beams expose bomb rubble in the middle ground.

As pictured by Hamilton, the citizen and the subject are opposites in an almost anthropological sense—citizen versus subject, Catholic versus Protestant, young versus old, on the blanket versus in full regalia, dispossessed versus empowered. At the same time they are doubles, and this complicates everything. Like the citizen, the subject is ambiguous in demeanor: His posture appears defiant, but his expression seems grim, as if he were a little trapped in his role too (the same grated aperture appears behind both figures). Of course, the situations are hardly equal, as the subject walks free. Or does he? Might he also feel compelled to march, to re-mark his space and to reach for more (he has crossed the white lines of one crosswalk and is headed for the next)? Moreover, as Hamilton remarks, “The Orangeman in full ceremonial rig is scarcely less extreme than is the blanket man,” and his gesture, sword erect, is atavistic in its own way.¹⁷ In short, both the citizen and the subject attest to a desperate, rancorous pride; as the former claims the space of his cell, the latter claims the territory of his march, and both have made a mess of it—a cell painted with shit, a street sculpted with rubble.

Sympathies are more mixed in the final work in the Troubles trilogy, The state (1993). Here again the figure—a young paratrooper in the British army on patrol in Belfast, with camouflage fatigues, visored helmet, and rifle at the ready—is composed of several pictures, mostly news images, and there is a bit of collage, too (his pouch is actual material). To be sure, this token of the state opposes the citizen more than the subject; like the subject, he has a weapon and a uniform, and his are not ceremonial. At the same time, like the citizen, this young man seems caught in a space that he is ordered to control. His posture is also ambiguous (Hamilton suggests he walks backward warily), and so is his expression, which is more pensive than pugnacious. The left panel is a blurred rendering of a country road in Corrascoffey, Ireland. As in the other paintings, its space—here gray—extends into the right panel, the urban street patrolled by the paratrooper, and the (dis)connection between the two prompts us to ask whether the country road is a utopian image, an imaginary linking of Belfast to the green Republic (this is also suggested by the Mourne Mountains montaged behind the Belfast street), or another dead end. Patched with frost, the road is even more deserted than the street; it might recall the famous stage direction of Waiting for Godot—“A country road. A tree”—only here there isn’t even a tree.

Richard Hamilton, The state, 1993, diptych, enamel and cloth on Cibachrome on canvas, each panel 78 3⁄4 x 39 3⁄8".

Hamilton calls his trilogy “a kind of theatre, a tragicomedy with deadly overtones.”¹⁸ In his ideal arrangement it forms a triptych, with The citizen in the center (he alone gazes at us) flanked by The state to the left and The subject to the right. This arrangement produces another provocative ambiguity: Even as the citizen is hemmed in by his doubles, as if imprisoned for a second time, might he somehow be served by these wingmen as well? In any case, as Hamilton makes clear, it is too easy to see the Troubles as a clear matter of simple sides. The parties here are antagonists, rivals, twins, and the trilogy triangulates them in such a way that their visual relay conveys their historical entanglement. Where, then, is the place of the viewer? Is he or she an “attentive observer caught in the spell of a television picture,” as the artist is said to be?¹⁹ Hamilton stipulates that the canvases be hung low, a foot or so above the floor, perhaps to suggest that the figures are not so removed from us. (In fact, in an early presentation of The citizen, he had its gallery space fashioned to recall a cell.) Like avatars of that Benjaminian angel blown into the future by catastrophe, they are subjects of a history that continues to implicate us, and this makes the trilogy one of the few persuasive examples of postwar history painting, in the same league as Richter’s Baader-Meinhof suite.

The two gulf wars have also provoked Hamilton to respond. For War Games, 1991–92, he set up his camera in front of his TV, just as he had two decades earlier for Kent State; but this time it was a video camera positioned to view a good part of his media cabinet as well, an environment dominated by Sony products (TV, speakers, tape deck, tapes). Hamilton enlarged his chosen image with a Scanachrome machine, which imparts televisual scan lines to the entire field, except for the TV screen, which he chose to paint—though it is unclear whether doing so renders the captured scene more real or even less. This scene focuses on the modeling of the war on such programs as BBC Newsnight, with its “Sandpit” dotted with balsa-wood tanks painted in bright colors and keyed to combatant flags. The internal caption, THE MOTHER OF BATTLES, which appears on a newspaper folded in the cabinet below, was coined by Saddam Hussein, but it could have been authored by the BBC or CNN—even then the lingo of propagandistic infotainment was international.

Then, too, it was not a cliché to say that the first Gulf War was a televisual event with the paradoxical effect of distant intimacy I mentioned above. On the one hand, we seemed to be present, immediately so, especially when caught up in the death thrill of the so-called smart bombs as they fell to impact; on the other, we were entirely remote, in the comfort of our homes, with the most grisly scenes unseen. Hamilton hardly suggests what Baudrillard infamously did—that the war was effectively simulated—but he does imply that it was played out theatrically in a way that allowed us to feel protectively distanced, with the dead bodies repressed. In his image, however, the real of the body returns, as in a horror movie, as blood red seeps out of the TV set and drips down the media console. Of course, the first Gulf War did come home; Hamilton was prescient in this regard. Even more so was his imaging of war as a video theater, complete with implications of the infantile sandbox, the adolescent video game, and the gaming of war in general—that is, the connection between “war games” in the Pentagon and “war games” from Sony and similar corporations. Here again Hamilton updates history painting with a new subject: the military-entertainment complex.

Most recently, the current Iraq war has moved Hamilton to produce a portrait of Tony Blair. Shock and Awe, 2008, looks back to the satirical painting of Hugh Gaitskell, and along with the Thatcher portrayal in Treatment Room they make another trilogy, this one of failed leaders. At the same time, especially in format, the Blair portrait calls up the figures in the Troubles suite: He too is costumed and weaponized, and he too makes a mess of his world. And yet, whereas they are semitragic, semisympathetic characters, Blair looks ridiculous. Assembled from images made and found (some on the Internet, which suggests another shift in discursive frame), Blair appears in a Roy Rogers shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, with six-shooters and holsters that, in the manner of overcompensation, are too big for his short legs. Almost as absurd as Gaitskell as a filmland monster, almost as creepy as Thatcher as a state clinician, this wannabe cowboy appears here channeling Bush channeling Reagan channeling John Wayne. Why did he wannabe? That remains one question, and Hamilton captures precisely the lethal absurdity of Blair’s misidentification as Texas Ranger. Once again the pictorial pastiche performed by the artist rehearses and exposes the political pastiche performed by his subject.

Teeth gritted, Blair looks more fearful than tough. Do we see him, guns clutched, just before he draws or just after he has fired, too quick to draw after all? The dioramic space behind him, a fiery purgatory, suggests that it is just after. This no-man’s-land is meant to evoke Baghdad on the first night of “shock and awe,” but clearly the shock and awe are Blair’s too; they are registered in his eyes and in the lines of his face. He is horrified: This isn’t what he imagined; it’s the wrong movie, the wrong history, and he’s not right for the part in any case. If one can imagine a Madame Tussauds re-dressed by Brecht, this is how Blair might appear there.

Hal Foster is Townsend Martin 1917 professor and chair of the department of art and archaeology at Princeton University.


1. The artist discusses these works in Richard Hamilton, Collected Words 1953–1982 (London: Thames and Hudson, 1982); see also Hal Foster, “On the First Pop Age,” New Left Review (January/February 2003). In the first instance “tabular” refers to the way the Just what is it? collage was generated out of a list or “table” of terms that Hamilton wanted to illustrate—“Man,” “Woman,” “Space,” etc. Subsequent paintings continued this tabular approach, though not quite as systematically.

2. Hamilton, Collected Words, 233.

3. Quoted in Richard Morphet, ed., Richard Hamilton, exh. cat. (London: Tate Gallery, 1992), 166.

4. The different versions are meant to reflect various discrepancies in the newspaper reports. Hamilton removed the window of the van from the original photo through retouching; however, in the seventh and final version, he reconstructed it as a plywood frame with sliding glass panes. This play with framing, design elements, object status, and illusionist effects is typical.

5. Hamilton, Collected Words, 94. Hamilton favors compelling images that arrive by chance in this way; his term is epiphanic.

6. Hamilton, in conversation with Richard S. Field, in Field, ed., The Prints of Richard Hamilton (London and New York: Petersburg Press, 1973), 13.

7. On the “screened look” versus the “scanned image,” see Hamilton, Collected Words, 52. Hamilton also wrote a short text on Kent State, which he says “coolly describes the passage of information” and “seems far more menacing than a sentimental registering of personal disgust” (ibid., 94).

8. Hamilton, quoted in Michael Regan, ed., Four Rooms, exh. cat. (London: Liberty’s, 1984); also quoted in Morphet, ed., Richard Hamilton, 178. DHSS is the Department of Health and Social Security; NHS is the National Health Service.

9. Mark Francis, “Richard Hamilton: Grand New Artificer,” in Francis, ed., Richard Hamilton (Edinburgh: Fruitmarket Gallery, 1988), 8.

10. As often with Hamilton, there are related works, too, which serve effectively as studies, even as they also stand independently.

11. See Morphet, ed., Richard Hamilton, 177.

12. Hamilton, A Cellular Maze (Londonderry: Orchard Gallery, 1983), unpaginated; also quoted in Morphet, ed., Richard Hamilton, 177. The citizen was first exhibited in Northern Ireland at Orchard Gallery, in Derry, along with important paintings by Rita Donagh about the Maze (which is also known as Long Kesh).

13. Sigmund Freud, Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality (1905), trans. James Strachey (New York: Basic Books, 2000), 53.

14. On this point, see Hal Foster, The Return of the Real: The Avant-garde at the End of the Century (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1996), 153–68.

15. See Ernest Jones, “Anal-Erotic Character Traits” (1918), in Papers on Psychoanalysis (Boston: Beacon Press, 1961), 413–37.

16. Hamilton quoted in Carnegie International 1991 (Pittsburgh: Carnegie Museum of Art, 1991), also in Morphet, ed., Richard Hamilton, 180. “From beneath the orange frippery,” Hamilton adds, “emerges a twenties-vintage City of London business man.”

17. As Sarat Maharaj, who has written extensively on Hamilton, writes: “The marches commemorate the trauma of survival, the desire to uphold a particular way of life and belief. In the context of Protestant power and privilege they take on a disciplinary, taunting edge rubbing home the idea of Catholic subordination. It was not unusual for marches to try ‘to take’ a street from a Catholic area—a symbolic territorial claim. ‘The subject’ brings together actual contemporary devastation, the shattering force of an explosive device, with the dogmatic force behind the replay of Orange myths in the marches.” See Sarat Maharaj, ed., Richard Hamilton, British Pavilion, Venice Biennale (London: British Council, 1993), 9.

18. Hamilton, in conversation with Tim Marlow, May 26, 2000, at Tate Modern, as quoted in Etienne Lullin, ed., Richard Hamilton: Prints and Multiples 1939–2002 (Düsseldorf: Richter Verlag, 2002), 224.

19. Hamilton, A Cellular Maze, as quoted in Lullin, ed., Richard Hamilton: Prints and Multiples, 194.