When a several-ton slab of cor-ten steel crushed an installation worker at the Walker Art Center in the early 70s, Serra's work acquired a mortal dimension that most people don't associate with art.
Pop art had wooed the middlebrows through the power of mass publications like Life and Look magazine. There was a denaturing involved in the widespread acceptance of Lichtenstein, Robert Indiana and other chic fabulists of the American commercial image.
Serra more than any of the others invested in gravity in a manner so extravagantly literal that it pushed the existential envelope of art to overlap with war itself. It wasn't a cartoon from any angle. It dug beneath the merzbild of the dadaists, and the mobius strip tease of the cubists, and tried to reconnect with art as life and death. But for the midtown party and chelsea gallery orchid eaters, art has no real business intersecting with war. It should at best play with cap guns, with the faux abbatoir pretense of Damien Hirst, but not with real honest-to-god dead people.
The deadly gravity of Serra's work still look at us, a question that can only be answered with a eulogy delivered in a language like molten lead.