I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in
And stops my mind from wandering
Where it will go . . .
And it really doesn't matter
If I'm wrong I'm right;
Where I belong I'm right;
Where I belong.
--Lennon/McCartney
by Jerome du Bois
If it's supposed to be a saguaro blossom, why does everybody call it "The Jellyfish?"
And doesn't that represent a basic failure in visual communication?
What's it called, anyway? The Sky Was Empty Before I Got Here ?
Why don't these Phoenix city arts commissioners and city bureaucrats admit that they're bowing to the kind of semi-rich loft-dweller who wants to point out his or her dining-room window at The Echelman? "Yeah, there it is; we're the only city in the country with anything even remotely like that. You should see it when the blah blah is blah blah. . . . More chipotle reduction?" Ain't that true, Ms. Andrea Norman, Mr. Joe Baker, Mr. Dwight Walth, Ms. Susan Copeland, et al the other guy-wire-pullers behind the scenes?
Janet Echelman, like all these one-trick-pony blowhards, raps on about "responding to the site," but that's bullshit. She's the webbing artist, the netting artist, the Tennyson of Tenara, the Godzilla of GoreTex, but all her stuff is just plop art that floats. She's stuck in her schtick, like most of them. Back in the day Robert Irwin talked about being "available in response." We need more of that sensitivity, and lot less of this empty inflated ego-stuff. I mean, listen to her:
"My work has always interwoven multiple layers of meaning. This allows each person to create their own meaning. I like that participatory nature in art, which is democratic and empowers the individual to know their own truth."
We're all just little solipsistic, nihilistic, hedonistic bubbles, creating our own truths as we float along, la la la . . . Hey, that's my meaning, get your own . . . la la la . . . now we're pink, now we're blue, happy flappy googlygoo . . .
"My work for Phoenix functions on many levels. It begins with an inquiry into your geography, not only to the way a cactus constructs a juicy blossom in the middle of a parched desert, but also to the formations of clouds across a field of blue, to the monumental dust storms and rain that pass through your big open sky casting shadows on the ground; to the interplay in life forms between skeleton and skin; and to the very real concrete phenomena each of us sees before our very eyes, the exquisite patterns of the wind which change in each moment."
That last could more easily be achieved by lining up two dozen mature cottonwoods in the same space, where anyone could watch them sway. Which reminds me of this short piece I wrote a couple of years ago: Two Tall Trees. We don't need you, Ms. Echelman, to show us the wind.
It begins with an inquiry into your geography . . .
Three elements missing from the inquiry, though: HEAT and SHADE and WATER. Eight months of triple digits, basic. Dammit, Janet, when you were here, were you ever here? Which reminds me of another piece I wrote a couple of years ago: A Speculative Anatomy of A Local Public Art Project, which highlighted the crucial climatological elements of heat and shade and water, as well as empathy --the response to the site.
Echelman's piece could be put up anywhere. It has absolutely nothing to do with Phoenix. Hey, Dallas, check this out, you want a balloon? What we need downtown in what Susan Copeland, with her highfalutin nose way up in the air, calls "a little nothing park," is shade and flowing water and greenery and life --a sheltered hanging gardens--not some monument to an artist's or bureaucrat's ego, or a desperate attempt by neurotic city leaders to be hip. Sure, the jellyfish will transform not just the park, but the city itself, into a Destination. Susan Copeland: "This piece of art would have drawn people, even if they liked it or didn't. Without it, it's going to be a little nothing park." Dream on. And please explain why anyone would be "drawn" to something they didn't like? People usually avoid things and places they know in advance they won't like. That's why lots of movies and plays and songs and art don't make money: because people don't patronize them. What she said doesn't make any sense, but it sure shows her ignorant arrogance. And she's a big mover down there, apparently, but it doesn't really matter, if she's wrong she's right, where she belongs she's right, where she belongs. . . . The city deserves better.
And has anyone brought up the danger to all the birds who could get confused or caught up in the netting or the wires? Did they have focus groups with the birds, too? or is it just their tough luck that they have this tricky deadly cloud to deal with now?
And what's to prevent urban youth, participating in the Global Youth Culture, from creating all kinds of vandalistic urban sports around the thing? Paintballing, with higher scores for farthest hits. Lobbing whatever's handy up into the netting with portable homemade catapults which will evolve in sophistication as time goes by. Remember the pumpkin chunkers, who have passed the mile mark, last I checked. Climbing the poles, slinging tied shoes (or each other) over the guy wires. What's to prevent these things from happening? Talk amongst yourselves.
In the meantime we already have a winner in the caption contest for this photo of the well-dressed Ms. Echelman: "I'm gonna squeeeeze . . ."
Have a floaty day, everyone.
Posted by Jerome at December 17, 2007 10:15 AM | TrackBack