It's easy to become preoccupied with art that has a clever premise or a flashy color scheme, but it's oh-so-refreshing to see an exhibit that makes you think about more than art. Diane Arbus' Family Album was one talented photographer's reflections on family in general and on a loose family of world-changing '60s misfits in particular. It made us think about the past differently. Walking through the Spencer, we read old Esquire articles that accompanied Arbus' photos, about characters such as the mother who challenged compulsory school prayer on her son's behalf (even though she was Christian) and a doctor who, while working in the South, was called out to help a family who couldn't tell whether one of its members was alive or dead. The home had no electricity, so the doctor shined a flashlight into her eyes and discovered the source of her malaise: maggots. The rest of his career was devoted to treating poverty as a medical condition. Arbus' infatuation with these characters as well as her desire to compile their portraits into an album strike us as both sentimental and archival. Sentimental because of her obvious, heartfelt reverence for her subjects. Archival because she seemed to suspect that, without her, history might forget them.
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