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Eriksen is one of more than 350 veterans who have turned to art to preserve more intimate and enduring memories of war.

War veterans put emotions in their art

2,500 works go on display in Chicago

Associated Press photos
Gulf War veteran Marcus Eriksen created his sculpture “My Angel in the Desert” after seeing a dead Iraqi soldier in 1991.

– The fallen Iraqi soldier’s face is frozen in agony, his eyes and mouth wide open, his arms spread in surrender, his death in the Kuwaiti desert captured for posterity.

The sculpture’s title: “Angel in the Desert.”

Marcus Eriksen was a young Marine sergeant during the Gulf War, riding with a convoy to Kuwait City, when he encountered the Iraqi soldier. It was the first dead body he’d seen. The image was haunting, the experience unforgettable. But it took more than a decade before he started welding the memory into art.

Using a mannequin, an old uniform and plaster cast of his face and hands, Eriksen produced a mold and lined it with 70,000 steel ball bearings. He meticulously recreated the scene: the soldier on his back, knees bent. His insides exposed beneath his shirt. And swooping curves in the sand that suggested he’d moved his arms like a kid making snow angels.

This, Eriksen says, is not “an anti-war message. It’s a reality of war message.”

Every November, America honors its veterans with grand parades, speeches and tributes. But more than 350 veterans of Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq and Afghanistan have turned to art to preserve more intimate and enduring memories of war, and more than 2,500 of their works have found a home at Chicago’s National Veterans Art Museum.

The modest museum, which focused at first on Vietnam vets but has since expanded, includes paintings, prints, drawings, poetry, photos, sculpture, collages and video. Most of the vets are trained artists who’ve used their skills to illustrate harrowing life-and-death experiences, explore personal demons and celebrate fallen comrades. This is art that dredges up nightmares for some, and healing for others – Eriksen, among them.

Now 45, he vividly remembers Feb. 24, 1991, when he and about a dozen other Marines stood around staring silently at the dead soldier sprawled 30 feet from his incinerated truck. “No one would cry,” he says. “As a Marine, you just suck it up.”

“Seeing him put a face on the suffering,” Eriksen recalls. “I knew he was dead, but his family didn’t. ... All that death and destruction – was it worth it? If you’re going to commit young people to kill and be killed, you have to have a solid reason for it. And I don’t think we had that.”

Eriksen, now an environmental activist in California, began creating his sculpture shortly after the first bodies of U.S. troops started coming home from Iraq in 2003. It stirred up emotions of his days in uniform.

“It allowed me to remove the burden of my memories of Kuwait, of all the bodies, of the stench. ... Just making the sculpture ... would bring tons of sadness,” Eriksen says. “I would think about that person and what happened every day. At some point, I thought, ‘Do I want to feel that way the rest of the day?’ Eventually you tell yourself, as I did, no, I’m not going to beat myself up a millionth time. I’m done with that.”

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