Di Suvero and the cranes at Crissy Field, San Francisco

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It was a morning full of surprises.

Crissy Field was a little hard to reach. Being new to San Francisco didn’t help any and the maze-like configuration of streets and alleys in the Presidio didn’t help either. Finally, after negotiating a series of construction zones I drove under the incomplete highway bridge that leads to the Golden Gate Bridge. Suddenly, after twisting through the foggy confines of the former military base, I was confronted with two startling sights: wide-open space and a huge Di Suvero sculpture in the flat, grassy field that grounded the space.

I had hoped I would be seeing the Golden Gate Bridge. On a clear day Crissy Field provides stunning views of the iconic structure. Today it was utterly invisible, enshrouded in fog. (That's it, behind the old coast guard buildings and the other two Di Suveros.)

The Di Suvero, however, was not only a surprise: it was lovely. I especially enjoyed seeing it in the context of the bridge construction. Exposed girders and structural steel columns made an appropriate backdrop and counterpoint to the sculpture. As if for emphasis, two tall cranes stood over the work site, crisscrossed and motionless on this Sunday morning. Life imitates art, I thought, joyfully. "How pure a thing is joy!" (See poem below.)

I quickly observed that the Di Suvero was not singular. Several more dotted the wide expanse of grass. When I parked and walked around for a closer look I counted eight sculptures, all a little different but distinctively Di Suveros, with his signature bold I-beam construction and abstract expressionist style. The next surprise was the feeling of dismay that tempered my joy as I spent time with the suite of sculptures. Perhaps it was the oppressively flat field—it had once served as a runway for the US Army air corps. Something about the repetition of the steel sculptures reminded me of the rustbelt cities of my home in the Midwest, or decaying cargo cranes at an abandoned harbor facility.

How many Di Suveros, I thought, are too many? Now, I know, particularly in Milwaukee, that’s a loaded question. Quite a substantial proportion of our fair city’s population would quickly—and loudly—answer “one!” I must hasten to say that I’ve always liked Di Suvero’s work and, having taught art for so many years, have often found myself defending it against vociferous naysayers. I’ve also seen, at Storm King Art Center in NY, a series of at least as many Di Suvero sculptures in one setting.

Storm King is not Crissy Field, though. Not flat. There each new sculpture was a discovery as one wound among the hills and trees. Here the sculptures, all of them visible at a glance, seemed diminished rather than energized by the repetition.

The surprises kept coming. I was framing this shot of the sculpture called “Old Buddy (for Rosko)”—named in tribute to his dog—when a woman jogging on the path stopped nearby and said to me, “did you see the crane?” My immediate thought was “of course I see the crane; look how amazing it is, framed within the forms of the sculpture.” But as I raised my head and before I could reveal the narrowness of my vision by speaking, the bird to which she was referring lifted its wings and flew not ten feet in front of me. You can see it on the far left edge of this uncropped version of the same photo.

I followed the crane. It hadn’t flown far and was striding slowly and deliberately down the field, among the sculptures. A living and breathing crane amongst the construction equipment and the art. Harmony and contrast. I wondered what Di Suvero would think of this. I loved it and I’d like to think he would, too.

I never got more than a glimpse of the top of one tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. It peeked briefly out from the fog, then disappeared again. But I enjoyed seeing the Di Suveros among the cranes and the crane among the Di Suveros.

OK, one more surprise. This sculpture is titled "Are Years What? (for Marianne Moore)." And how is this for an astonishing coincidence? According to the sign in front of the sculpture, the title refers to a poem by Moore, “which ends with the image of a captive bird who draws strength in its confinement through joyful singing.” 

At least this crane isn’t captive. "This is mortality, this is eternity."

Here is the poem:

What are years?

by Marianne Moore

What is our innocence,

what is our guilt? All are

naked, none is safe. And whence

is courage: the unanswered question,

the resolute doubt, -

dumbly calling, deafly listening-that

in misfortune, even death,

encourage others

and in it's defeat, stirs

the soul to be strong? He 

sees deep and is glad, who

accedes to mortality

and in his imprisonment rises

upon himself as 

the sea in a chasm, struggling to be

free and unable to be,

in its surrendering

finds its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,

behaves. The very bird,

grown taller as he sings, steels

his form straight up. Though he is captive,

his mighty singing

says, satisfaction is a lowly

thing, how pure a thing is joy.

This is mortality,

this is eternity.

Inside/Outside at the Lynden Sculpture Garden closes soon!

OK, so here’s the thing: you have only two days left to see the current Inside/Outside installations by Kevin Giese and Linda Wervey Vitamas. It closes Aug. 11, but since the Gardens are open only on Sunday and Wednesday, that means two days. (I am one fan who hopes that the Garden will find the means to expand its hours soon!) But the good news is: it’s definitely worth making the time and getting there.

(Not that it’s been easy for me! I was sorry to miss both the opening and the scheduled artist tours earlier in the summer, being out of town. And then the day in July that I had set aside to visit…well, I was actually on my way there when suddenly one of those all-too-frequent deluges turned me back.)

Site specific installations, when successful, are especially intriguing because they relate to their immediate surroundings in ways that go beyond normal sculpture—and I love it when art is relational and not self-absorbed. This is true under most circumstances, but when the sites for artist’s interventions include other sculptures as well as the landscape, as is the case at the Lynden Garden, the possibilities—and challenges—increase.

Fortunately, both Giese and Vitamas were up to the challenge and produced work that is subtle, thoughtful, and well integrated with the sculptures around them.

I noticed Giese’s installation of stripped buckthorn trees immediately as I strolled across the lawn. They are perfectly situated across the pond and against a backdrop of mature pines. Their reflection in the water carries and intensifies the already wavering lines of the bare wood. Buckthorn, as Giese notes, is an invasive species (as I know well – my other blog is Urban Wilderness), which is insinuated in his title for the piece: Immigrants. The stripped trees are not the whole piece, however. Giese has created beauty out of the conceptual ugliness of invasive species; he has also planted living trees (sorry, I didn’t catch the species but I assume/hope they are native!)

Walking around the pond for a closer look reveals that the siting also creates for a striking contrast with Clement Meadmore’s monumental steel sculpture, Upstart.

Vitamas, with completely different materials and methods, has assembled a piece called Indigenous Transience that is conceptually very sympathetic with Giese’s. (This is appropriate, since the charge of the invitational Inside/Outside theme was to produce collaborative work rather than two separate works.) She uses a steel beam and unfired clay to create a work that has inherent contrasts. It would have been nice to see the piece at the opening when the simple clay pinch pots were new, but if I had to choose, I’d say now is a better time to see them after all. They have been slowly crumbling ever since (maybe not so slowly in some of our summer storms!) This results in cracked earthen, almost archeological, remains atop the intact steel.

As with Giese, this piece resonates very well with the sculptures nearby. Di Suvero’s steel Lover and John Henry’s aluminum Pin Oak are both linear and metallic, which harmonizes with Vitamas’s steel beam, while their permanence is accented by the ephemeral quality of Vitamas’s dissolving clay.

Both artists have equally fascinating work in the gallery as well. You can see them and read about the artists, on the Lynden Sculpture Garden website. You can see more of their work at their own websites:
Kevin Giese
Linda Wervey Vitamas

To see my previous post on the opening of the Lynden Garden, click here.

A Visit to the Walker Museum of Contemporary Art in Minneapolis

As we approached the entrance of the museum the long, sloping lawn was full of people in black leotards. No, it wasn’t an elaborate performance piece with a large cast, but a yoga session. For the summer season, June 3-Sept. 5, the museum as a clever new slogan, program, and marketing scheme called “Walker Open Field.” The public is welcome to enjoy the lawn, for yoga, sunning, or simply rolling down the hill, as I saw some children doing. An open field bar & grill makes it even more inviting. Tables and chairs on the patio for those who enjoy sitting more than rolling.

Like the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (see previous post), there is too much in the collection to describe more than a sampling. One of my favorite galleries, a detail of which is illustrated above, is called “Benches & Binoculars.” The salon-style installation allows the museum to display a larger number of its large collection. Because many of the works date from decades ago, it also, according to the gallery notes, encourages visitors to rethink notions of what constitutes contemporary art. Just what does a “museum of contemporary art” do with an aging collection? They must either redefine contemporary, compromise and admit to maintaining a collection of “once-contemporary” art, or, as some do on principle, forego a permanent collection entirely. The title of the gallery refers to the benches strewn haphazardly down the middle and the binoculars wired to them for viewing the paintings hung on high. (I found the binoculars more annoying than helpful.)

I was delighted to find that the Walker has a Turrell (called Sky Pesher, 2005, above). However, I wouldn’t have discovered it had I not coincidentally engaged in a conversation with a friendly volunteer who told me where it’s located. If you’ve never had the pleasure of visiting one, the image above—which is looking up through the glassless sky window typical of his work—can’t convey the peaceful, meditative space he’s created.

The Walker’s main exhibit is Guillermo Kuitca: Everything—Painting and Works on Paper, 1980-2008. Only the most egoistic or narcissistic of artists—and there is no lack of either—can live in one place for long without being influenced by its culture. Kuitca has been living and painting in Argentina for the duration indicated by the title. At first glance, much of the work seems to have little to say about Argentina, being abstractions and distortions of uninhabited architectural motifs. I would have found it hard to relate to his work if I’d chanced upon one or two of his tiny, precious drawings or watercolors, or even the enormous mixed media paintings (example above, right) or a floor full of burnt mattresses printed with maps (see them on Walker Art Center website or kuitca.com). But by putting them all together, the Walker has not only made sense of these enigmatic works but illuminated the inner workings of Kuitca’s creative imagination. It becomes a compelling document of a global society with contradictory impulses, where humanity overwhelms the environment and individuals disappear. “Everything” in the exhibition title comes from an enormous mixed media collage of the same name. The reproduction of it (below) dilutes its impact and makes it hard to read the content, which is street maps from cities all over the U.S. with all the open spaces between them removed. The result is a cancerous obliteration of nature, with us as the malignant growth. (No urban wilderness in sight, nor even imaginable.)

Of course we spent time in the adjacent sculpture garden with the famous Oldenburg spoon and cherry fountain (top) that has long represented Minneapolis as the Calatrava now does Milwaukee.

The swing makes this Di Suvero atypical.

This is one bench/art work (right) from an installation of, oh, I didn't count them, maybe 24. They form a square in a hedged garden space. The works are titled Selections from 'the Living Series' (which implies there are even more of them) by Jenny Holzer. Each bench has a different sentence etched into it as in this case. In a text panel she says that the writings describe “everyday events” that had some kind of “kink” to them along with “sociopolitical observations or absurdities” I found them to be pessimistic, negative, and often paranoid. But intriguing enough to read every one.

My favorite in the garden is this one (below) by David Graham, which he calls “Hedge Labyrinth.” It involves a grid of living hedges, steel mesh, and mirrored windows. Graham is new to me and now I want to see more!

St. Louis beats Milwaukee in public art

Untitled by Martin Puryear

at the City Garden, St. Louis

Having lived in Milwaukee for a long time, I've seen too many instances of public art that is either ridiculed or rejected. And so it was a pleasure to visit St. Louis where, in a short few days, I discovered a trove of public art. Two troves in particular: a large suburban sculpture park (Laumeier) and a three block long stretch of the downtown central mall called the City Garden. I had the great fortune to visit each several times.

Both are free and open to the public. Both include sculptures that range from figurative to abstract, complex to minimal.

I would have been delighted with the art in any case. What struck me most about my visits, however, was that so many other people were there spending time with the sculptures. I'm so used to being the only person paying any attention to public sculpture, but while I was there I never saw either place deserted. People clearly enjoyed not only the public space but the art. Many had cell phones and serious cameras out, taking shots of their friends and family in front of (sometimes inside) the sculptures.

At the City Garden the usual strictures against touching the art are more relaxed (there are warnings about safety rather than prohibitions) and it was wonderful to see children climbing the di Suvero as well as Tom Claassen's more predictably approachable white rabbits.

Kids enjoyed climbing inside the monumental head of "Eros Bound" by Igor Mitoraj and looking out through the eyes. They also splashed through the gently cascading water in front of it. At the City Garden in St. Louis I found a public space for public art that the public enjoys!

What's wrong with Milwaukee? Why couldn't we take a block or two of the still vacant Park East Freeway and create our own sculpture park? Maybe right next to the Bradley Center, where there are plenty of visitors; or as an extension of the Riverwalk.

Although the St. Louis region is larger, the city of Milwaukee is almost twice the size of St. Louis in population. There's more to that story--too much for one post.

Eros Bound, Igor Mitoraj
at the City Garden, St. Louis