In an act of cultural vandalism that would make even the most jaded Dulwich gallery curator weep into their chia latte, the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool has been painted black. Yes, black. As though the ghost of Joseph Beuys rose from his German grave to slap some conceptual art across the face of American civic pride. The National Park Service, presumably under the influence of some particularly potent DC swamp gas, decided that the nation’s most solemn reflecting pool needed a goth makeover. The result? A tarry, oily slick that looks less like a tribute to Honest Abe and more like the baptismal font for the Antichrist’s yacht club.
Americans, bless their patriotic cotton socks, have recoiled. Social media is aflame with the sort of unhinged fury usually reserved for overpriced avocados or someone putting pineapple on pizza. “It looks like a giant puddle of crude oil,” wailed one Twitter user, clutching their pearls so hard they turned into diamonds. Another lamented that the pool now resembles “the void where joy goes to die.” They’re not wrong. The Reflecting Pool, once a shimmering ribbon of light and memory, now resembles a mile-long slab of liquorice left out in the Washington drizzle.
But let us cast a jaundiced eye across the Atlantic, where Her Majesty’s designers have been splashing colour onto public monuments since before America was a twinkle in George III’s gout-ridden eye. In Britain, we understand that public monuments should either be brutally stark or gently whimsical. We have the Angel of the North, a rusting behemoth that looks like a Transformer having a bad hair day. We have the Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square, where a rotating cast of bewildering sculptures – a giant blue rooster, a woman with a whip on a rocking horse – causes tourists to question their life choices. Our design philosophy is firmly grounded in the principle that if you’re going to spend taxpayer money on something, it should at least make passers-by say “What the bloody hell is that?”
By contrast, the Americans have taken a beloved neo-classical monument and turned it into a metaphor for the bleak state of their political discourse. Why paint it black? Is it a protest against the impending doom of climate change? A tribute to the colour of corporate ledgers after a bad quarter? Or just a spectacularly misguided attempt to spice up the tourist trail? The National Park Service claims the paint is a temporary measure to seal the pool ahead of repairs. But anyone who has ever seen a dodgy landlord cover up damp with emulsion knows that “temporary” in bureaucratic jargon means “enjoy it for the next decade.”
The cultural contrast is delicious. In Britain, we would never dream of painting a historic water feature black. We would instead fill it with custard, dye it radioactive green, or commission a Turner Prize winner to install a neon sign reading “This is not a pool.” The Americans, bless their earnest hearts, have gone for brooding nihilism. It’s as if the whole nation has been binge-watching Nordic noir and decided their monuments needed to reflect existential dread.
Perhaps this is the ultimate Gonzo truth: the Reflecting Pool now perfectly reflects the American soul. A once clear surface, now opaque and unknowable, shimmering with the oily residue of political division. Or perhaps it’s just an expensive prank by a bored intern. Either way, I’m off to find a gin that matches the hue. A London dry, perhaps. Or a blackberry-infused tipple from a distillery in the arse end of Shoreditch. Cheers, Abe. You’d probably have painted it white anyway.
