Divided we stand: in a recent exhibition, Hans Haacke used patriotic symbolism to address his concerns about the internal conflict haunting the United States

What if Hans Haacke's recent gallery exhibition "State of the Union," whose centerpiece was 50 stars on a floor-to-ceiling blue banner ripped down the middle nearly in two, had been at a major museum? It might well have provoked angry headlines in neo-con newspapers like those that greeted Sanitation, his piece in the 2000 Whitney Biennial (see A.i.A., July '00). While Sanitation took aim at then-mayor Rudolph Giuliani's censorship of the "Sensation" show at the Brooklyn Museum, the target of this exhibition, which included several new works as well as projects produced over the last four years in response to 9/11, was George W. Bush and the effect his administration's actions have had on the country. To sympathetic viewers, the torn star-covered banner, which shares the show's title, represents a nation divided by the decisions of its leaders. Yet State of the Union also seems provocative enough to elicit accusations of flag desecration and anti-American conduct.

In fact, the exhibition, Haacke's first at Paula Cooper Gallery as well as his first solo show in New York since 1994, did not arouse the mainstream press or public. The reason for the absence of controversy seems clear. Displayed in the heart of Manhattan's art district, the work functioned differently from those that earlier attracted a broader public or revealed unsavory information about an exhibition's sponsors. Indeed, State of the Union seemed to confirm the frustration and anger so many members of its audience already felt. According to Haacke, as he recorded in Free Exchange, a 1995 book-length conversation with sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, "I think works that do not get much public attention also leave a trace. ... no matter whether intended or not, [they] influence the social climate and thereby the political climate as well."

Recombining the elements of the U.S. flag, Star Gazing visually weds the idea of torture to the identity of the nation in a simple, potent image.

At Paula Cooper: the first image one saw, titled Commander in Chief (2005), was a small digital print of the president during a televised speech (perhaps a State of the Union address), hung at a jaunty angle. Caught in the downbeat of a blink, Bush's closed eyes suggest that the commander has a problem with "the vision thing." In the main gallery, the 24-by-16-foot nylon banner (sewn by Deokallie Perfaud, according to the checklist, where Haacke credits various assistants) was suspended from the rafters with half the material crumpled on the floor. The shape and proportions of the flag brought to mind the twin towers, one standing, the other destroyed.

Flanking the banner were two untitled assemblages. Although more enigmatic than other parts of the show, these two pieces elaborate a condition of upheaval through their formal violence. To the banner's left a smashed-up gym locker lay on its side with pennies scattered on the floor as if they had spilled from its interior. An old broomstick resting on the locker was topped by a golden eagle finial. The appearance of the national bird, symbol of the federal government's might, juxtaposed with humble objects available to the multitude, raised issues of deprivation and the abuse of power. The locker suggests private property, and its damaged condition the infringement of civil liberties. To the right of the banner was a weathered wooden desk flipped upside down. A thick steel nameplate, about 4 feet long and printed with the words "firstname lastname," jutted out as if the desk had fallen on it. A broken lightbulb sat on one of the desk's otherwise empty drawers. This work evoked wasted ideas and resources and the inadequacy of bureaucratic decision-making.

Placed on a small table behind the flag was a newsfeed printer spitting out flash updates onto rolls of paper, thus reprising a 1969 work that Haaeke has reconfigured on several occasions. Over the course of the show, yard upon yard of news piled up into a mass on the floor. The newsfeed effectively expanded Haacke's theme to encompass all noteworthy events, both natural and man-made, that have happened since 9/11 and continue to occur daily around the globe, bringing them into the gallery for contemplation. The newsfeed piece, along with a little potted orange bush sitting on the floor in front of the flag, titled Life Goes On, established the inexorable flow of time. The plant, a small bit of domesticated nature that was easy to overlook as an anomaly, seemed to counterpoint the effusive newsfeed, which produced evidence of a much more disorderly world hidden behind the wizard's curtain of the banner.

On the walls surrounding the installation were 50 small photographs and the original collage from a poster project Haacke did with Creative Time six months after the attack on the World Trade Center. The poster is a blank white rectangle with areas cut out in the shape of the Twin Towers. Approximately 100 posters were pasted around New York on top of existing advertisements whose space rental had expired. The towers' empty silhouettes served as a frame through which the underlying images were seen. The photos here, affixed to the wall with nails, showed the poster in various settings in the city, offering a mournful and quiet graphic statement.