I was listening to a late YouTube lecture released on the 4th and heard it on the 5th, a talk by Joan Freeman about Kent State and Star Wars, exploring their similarities, variances, and historical connections. It struck me as fairly accurate because I remember watching the Kent State events on television, and I have also seen Star Wars, and even more personally, I went to school alongside the creator of Star Wars, George Lucas, who was part of the San Francisco art scene, or so it was said, including its derivatives and influences.
There is a certain amount of truth in the connection between Lucas and the Art Institute, although much of it is mixed with variance and distortion, mostly because in those days there were no cell phones or quick ways to verify facts, and much of what circulated was based on hearsay and gossip. Most of my deeper understanding of Lucas and Star Wars came later, especially when the fourth version of Star Wars emerged, creating a kind of full episodic evolution that reshaped how the story was perceived.
The word evolution is a good place to begin when explaining Lucas and Star Wars. If I recall correctly, he attended San Francisco State and studied photography and filmmaking there, though I do not know who his instructors were. Somehow he was also connected with the Art Institute, which might explain why I never actually saw him on campus. Then again, in my later days at the Art Institute, I was not attending classes very regularly. My roommate at the time, Richard Silva, lived with me on Bush Street and was a photography student who seemed to know everyone. He was quite talented, graduated with honors, and maintained a calm and easygoing personality, untouched by the radicalization that affected many others through survival pressures or political intensity, even as a dual citizen of America and Brazil.
Another important figure in my life was Louise Preston, who attended Cranbrook, an art school in the Midwest, and both she and Richard remained dear friends to me for many years. In my early days at the Art Institute, during my first and second years, I also spent time with two individuals who had come from Kent State. Eventually, I lost contact with them. One of them worked at an artificial limb factory in Oakland, dealing with plastic moulage, and later returned to Ohio when the plant relocated its main production facility. He had come to the Art Institute to earn his Master’s degree, which he completed, although his name escapes me now, though I feel I could recall it with time.
With that background in mind, Star Wars becomes an especially interesting subject. I never fully understood it beyond its origins and Lucas’s early development, but I did follow his initial body of work, including the short films he created in art school, which remain quite rare even today. In those early works, he developed a technique of consistency, meaning a progression from small films to larger ones, then to commercially viable productions, and eventually to major large-scale filmmaking. I found that idea compelling, the notion of building something step by step into a product that could actually be sold.
For me, this stood in contrast to the overwhelming amount of theory I encountered, both in myself and in others, where there was constant discussion and anxiety but very little tangible production or successful sale of artistic work. Projects often dissolved due to lack of funding, limited audience, or the sheer expense of materials. I became more focused on simplification, even experimenting with making my own paint to cut costs, which was a practical solution, though the challenge of how to sell the final product still remained. Lucas, however, seemed to navigate that entire process successfully, which I found noteworthy.
Then there is the story itself and the deeper question of its origins. From what I understand and recall, Lucas’s first wife, Marcia Lucas, played a significant role in shaping the original script of Star Wars. That early collaboration appears to have been foundational, although what followed afterward becomes less clear and more layered with interpretation and speculation.
Freeman’s lecture opened my eyes to a correlation between Star Wars and the Kent State shootings, where four students were killed. I vividly remember seeing that event on a black-and-white television that we had either found on the street or purchased from a pawn shop. It sat on a chair in a cold room where we huddled for warmth, and I remember watching, almost in disbelief, the killing of those students. It was a horrifying moment, and although I did not immediately connect it to Star Wars at the time, there is, in retrospect, a thematic similarity in terms of conflict, authority, and resistance.
At the same time, the figurative movement in California painting, associated with artists like Diebenkorn, had already peaked by the time I arrived at school in 1965. The major financial successes had already occurred, the galleries had secured their shows, and the museums had made their acquisitions. What remained was a kind of residual market, where paintings were circulated and resold, but the real momentum had passed. For new artists, the prospects of earning a living were nearly nonexistent, with only occasional breakthroughs at exhibitions.
Meanwhile, the San Francisco Art Institute was investing heavily in filmmaking, aiming to expand that department significantly. The sculpture department, however, was particularly strong, generating both attention and financial success, and attracting major figures such as William Wiley, Bruce Conner, and Robert Hudson. I even had a class with Bruce Conner, which left a lasting impression.
Returning to the Kent State incident, it had a profound influence on me and on many others in the community. During that time, San Francisco was experiencing a massive influx of people, not only for education but also for what was often described as mind expansion. It was a chaotic and sometimes frightening environment, compounded by a lack of stable employment and large-scale redevelopment projects across the city.
There were also communities forming around alternative ideas, such as the Zen Center near where I lived. Many of those involved found practical work, such as laying cable for the BART underground project. I knew a Zen priest who worked steady hours and lived right next door to me. These overlapping worlds of spirituality, labor, and artistic exploration created a unique but fragile ecosystem.
In the back of my mind, there was always the sense that this could not last forever. The sheer volume of people, ideas, and activity carried both creative potential and inherent instability. While there were remarkable developments in areas like holistic food and Zen philosophy, the intensity of the community could only be sustained for so long. Eventually, the Zen community consolidated into its own center, and broader cultural shifts began to take hold.
The Kent State shootings served as a turning point, rapidly diminishing the sense of boundless possibility that had characterized the Summer of Love. In just a few days, optimism gave way to fear and paranoia, as people began to consider the possibility of widespread retaliation and control. This shift contributed to the decline of places like Haight Street, where community meetings were held to discuss how to peacefully dismantle the overwhelming population surge, essentially bringing an end to that chapter of collective experience.
Looking back, the Kent State shootings marked a decisive turning point in thought and perception, not only for me but for an entire generation navigating the intersection of art, politics, and society.
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