Art En Masse, Mass Art

I have mixed feelings about public art. No, I should be more specific. I enthusiastically endorse some public art and think others are lame.

These photos are ones Knut, Colin, and I took in the Skokie Sculpture Park. This park runs in between a busy street and a canal. I had driven past it hundreds of times, but never walked through it. Knut is partial to the gigantic head, purely because it reminds him of the film The Wicker Man. Note the similarly of poses between Knut and a famous still of Christopher Lee. I have no idea what it is Colin is posing on. It looks like a combination mining drill and underwater mine to me. I’m actually hiding behind it holding up Colin’s rear end. Most of the sculptures are fairly unremarkable, with a few real stand outs. Curiously, the majority are in shades of brown or olive. You’d think since these are seen mostly from the road, they’d prefer bright colors.

When a piece is perfect for a place, the people who live around it embrace it as a friend, and usually give it a nickname. It frequently takes only a short time for this to happen.

You can’t go past the Picasso in Daley Plaza in Chicago without seeing office workers eating their lunch on it or children sliding down the slanted base. Now there are plenty of benches around and kids can play on just about anything in my experience, but they are just drawn to the huge sculpture. Apparently, it was controversial when it was first put up which proves how many critics really don’t have much of a grip on public consciousness.

Similarly, The Bean was instantly embraced. It was only unveiled in 2004, but people love it. They make special trips to walk up to it, touch it, and generally experience it. Once when we were up admiring it, the men who clean it were working on a patch. They cheerfully advised us the best place to stand to see all of its reflective kaleidoscopic charms. There’s a pretty good contrast between The Bean and these huge glass block structure down the block that house animated screens of people’s faces. The faces have become part of the background, except in the hottest part of the summer when they spit water and the path between them is flooded. Then children and childish bloggers rip off their shoes and go for a refreshing skip through the puddles. You can tell The Bean is truly beloved because it has a nickname. It’s actually called “Cloud Gate.” When the artist initially complained about the nickname, I heard an artistic acquaintance say that everyone should have to call it the real name because it belongs to the artist. Possibly I’m of a more Andy Warhol frame of mind, but I feel that when a piece of art is public (indeed, we citizens of Chicago bought the thing and pay to maintain it), its identity becomes intertwined with the city. And if the city feels it should be called The Bean, the identity of the art becomes The Bean. Such a show of public affection is a high compliment.

Fortunately, the artist has learned to stop worrying and love The Bean.