The power of monuments, J Wortham writes, can be subtle: “So much of it comes from their ability to disappear into the landscape and obfuscate the truth of their meaning.” Wortham, whose account of their survivalist training was another favorite read of 2025, details a years-long effort by artists and curators to transform a collection of decommissioned American monuments, reframing them to grant new understanding of our history. Throughout, Wortham draws on their own experiences with monuments to Confederate military leaders, some of which appear radically altered—and, with nowhere to disappear, their truths plainly exposed.
The power of monuments, J Wortham writes, can be subtle: “So much of it comes from their ability to disappear into the landscape and obfuscate the truth of their meaning.” Wortham, whose account of their survivalist training was another favorite read of 2025, details a years-long effort by artists and curators to transform a collection of decommissioned American monuments, reframing them to grant new understanding of our history. Throughout, Wortham draws on their own experiences with monuments to Confederate military leaders, some of which appear radically altered—and, with nowhere to disappear, their truths plainly exposed.
In mid-September, I arrived at the Geffen Contemporary in downtown Los Angeles to visit the show’s installation in progress. I was immediately stunned by the enormousness of the space, a 40,000-square-foot warehouse with lofty ceilings. Once used to house police vehicles, it is one of the few places in the city that can hold the monuments, many of which weigh hundreds of pounds. Yet when I entered the building, it felt cramped. Tight.
Part of it was psychological. When I visited, only a handful of the monuments were arranged in the cavernous rooms. Yet each of their energetic footprints felt colossal. They drew the air out of the space, turning it into a haunted mausoleum. Initially, I didn’t want to be around them. I grew up in Virginia, and the statues and the inhumane ideas they celebrated shadowed my childhood. But seeing these figures here, now, sitting in their temporary new home, as if they were naughty children in a timeout, was surprisingly satisfying. I stood near the drawn-faced likeness of Roger B. Taney, which was tucked into a corner next to dollies and equipment awaiting its placement. Taney was the Supreme Court chief justice who delivered the majority opinion in the 1857 Dred Scott case ruling, which decreed that African Americans were not and could never be U.S. citizens. There was some relief — threaded through with triumph — at seeing at least one of the many monuments to him that are installed around the United States turned into a shameful dummy.