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May 11, 2003
A Real Mother
I know I said no symbols, but I owe you one: a branch of May to honor the old Tradition. We can't really do without symbols, most notably language, but I’m not speaking symbolically, or even metaphorically, when I say that the Earth is our Mother.It's the literal truth.
Where else do we come from?
The ancient bedrock that underlies the Park is not so old as Life itself, which seems to have emerged fairly soon after the creation of the Earth, at least as far as geologic time measures such things. How inanimate matter came to embody Life is hard to know. Some say it happened spontaneously; some say it’s supernatural; some say it came from outer space. We don’t really know, but we do know that Life was nurtured here, as in a womb. Paternity may be questioned, but Motherhood cannot be hid. Wherefore the male principle ascends to some symbolic heaven, while our Mother remains as real as rock, as true as rushing water. Feeding roots, unfolding leaves, she raises trees towards that guessed-at heaven. Not to reach her mate, but to provide a place for mother birds to make their nests.
A Mother cares for her children.
We may think we’ve grown up, that we can take care of ourselves, but we only subsist upon her assets. We drink her streams, we burn her woods, we mine her lodes of metal. If we foul her body in the process, she seems boundless in her capacity for healing.
Even so, we sense that she has limits.
If we render our planet uninhabitable, through poisonous war, or merely by our rapacious consumption, we may (conceivably) escape by leaving the Earth behind, departing into space like children leaving home, waving good-bye to Mother. Children have a way of breaking a mother’s heart, but we will not call it matricide. We’re just behaving in the way that Life does, exploiting our resources insofar as we can. Let’s not delude ourselves: Mother Earth is just a metaphor, after all.
Just a metaphor.
But we have no better way to speak. And even what we call the Truth is no more than an accepted symbol of the Mystery. The long mythology that runs from the navel of the primitive mind to the postmodern psychology of a post-secular world continues to enshrine Mother as a primary face of the Goddess. If we recognize the same face in the very context of our being we are not deluded; we are witnessing the convergence of the actual and the symbolic. Our gift of conscience compels us to treat them with the same regard. The capacity to make the connection is what we call “Love”.
By taking this day to Love Her, we convene the Truth: in a world of artifice, illusion and deception, Mother is real.
May 1, 2003
The Vultures of Spring
The first of May, and Spring is in full swing. There is no higher Holiday than May Day on the Arboretum calendar. I've said it is the Holiday of the Moment: a day not for the observation of any anniversary, but for observation as such; for immersion in the ecstatic moment of being. That makes it the ideal holiday for birdwatchers, especially in our area, where the date generally coincides with the beginning of the main flow of returning migrants. For the next three weeks the Park will be virtually overrun with expectant birders, and I trust they will not be disappointed.Expectation is a big part of the birding game. I bird all year 'round, as a basic aspect of my weekly visit to the Park. I've found there's always something worth seeing, as long as your expectations are realistic. In Winter, that might mean hoping for one unusual duck; in the middle of Summer it might be a glimpse of fledglings fresh out of the nest. There's not a whole lot else going on at those times, and most birders don't bother with the Park outside of the migration periods. It's more productive to travel to our local barrier beaches, or further afield, to areas where expectations may be higher.
For me, the birds are just an index of a deeper engagement, but you can be sure I develop some expectations of my own come Springtime. Migration in April is more fitful than in May, and hopes are often dashed by wintry weather that refuses to depart, or by a simple lack of birds, even when it seems they should be around. Still, anticipation entices and incites, so I'm out there, trying to keep my expectations under control, but hoping for some early sign of vernal promise. An impatient warbler, perhaps? A premature flash of yellow from some southern bird, overshooting its intended destination: a Yellow-throated Warbler; a Kentucky; maybe even a Prothonotary?
Such things are known to happen.
So what did I find, on a splendid morning in waning April? Some beautiful little bird to set my heart a-fluttering with the speed of warbler wings?
No.
I got vultures.
There I was, in the middle of the North Woods, when I found myself staring up the wrong end of a Turkey Vulture. At first I took the big, dark, ungainly shape in the treetop for one of those plastic trash bags that Winter scatters through the branches, but this one had feathers, and a bright red head. When I lowered my binocular I saw that there was a second bird, circling in classic vulture fashion, then descending to a nearby perch, while the first one hissed and hunched and flapped its way to an adjacent tree. This dance went on for a few minutes, until both of the birds departed, only to reappear a couple of times, making larger and higher circles around the north end of the Park, before finally disappearing entirely from my view, if not from my consciousness.
The possibilities for metaphorical interpretation are all too obvious. No friendly Robin, or any warbling songster, this year’s herald of Spring is a dusky carrion bird, arriving on the heels of war. But today, of all days, is no time for metaphors, and on this occasion I've promised myself that, in the words of the old spiritual, I ain't gonna study war no more. So let's study the Vulture instead, and see how it fits into the Springtide.
Despite its dark reputation, the Turkey Vulture is considered a "good" bird, at least in Central Park. They're not seen here often, though they regularly fly over during migration. Only serious birders are apt to spot them, little black specks against the high sky. They can be identified at great distances by their characteristic dihedral wing posture, their rocking motion, and their soaring flight style. That's how they are typically seen hereabouts; it's quite rare for one to actually touch down in the Park, let alone two of them. So I was happy with my sighting, the best looks I've ever had at the species. And yet, I must admit I was somewhat taken aback by their presence.
It's hard to know where the line is drawn between learned and instinctual responses. We've learned that vultures are associated with corpses, and we find them odious for that reason. They’re big, almost eagle-size, and any large wild animal will trigger an instinctive alarm, but I think the gut-level thing that grabbed me was the bird's naked head. This is an adaptation to the diet of carrion: it's hard to keep your cranial feathers clean when you spend a lot of time sticking your head into the recesses of a carcass. Hence, vultures worldwide have naked heads. The head appears small compared to other birds, but that’s only because it has no feathers to exaggerate its size and shape. Laid bare, the underlying structure of any bird’s head is a little like a reptile's. A beak is substituted for toothed jaws, but the basic form confirms the evolutionary heritage. There's nothing odd about a vulture's head except that it upsets our expectation of a bird as an animal entirely covered by feathers. As a result, this bird looks somehow "wrong", and elicits a strange range of emotional responses. There's concern that the poor thing has been plucked, or perhaps damaged in a fight, or maybe it's ill, but this concern conflates with the inadvertent voyeur’s sense of embarrassment over an unexpected confrontation with nudity. Maybe it's just too intimate for us to see the naked flesh of a feathered creature.
But no, there's nothing wrong with a vernal vulture, bald pate and all. It’s just not quite what I expected. But let me point out that while the local Red-tailed Hawks have legions of followers, and are widely admired, vultures might be a better model for us. They don't go around killing things, the way the hawks do. They are of an older, gentler lineage, akin to the storks, which are notably associated with birth. Vultures attend the other end of life, but they’re not violent; their relationship with death is more priestly than prosecutorial. Scavenger is an ancient niche, given less honor than it deserves. Vultures are involved in recycling; their highly evovlved immune systems allow them to act as purifiers of the environment. They do the dirty work on the food chain, and get little credit for it. They serve as a higher taxon reminder of the microscopic forces of decay, which we might prefer to ignore; a reminder of the dialectical intertwining of Life and Death. Beneficent caretakers, Vultures embody "green" values. They should be celebrated; we should be pointing to them as an example for our children; the Green Party should adopt the Vulture as a mascot...
But that would be expecting too much subtlety of a political symbol. Besides, politics will only lead me back to war, and I said I wasn't going to get into that. In fact, at least for today, I'm going to dispense with the symbolic altogether. I'm just going to go out there and give the day free rein to mean whatever it may, in May. I won't try to see anything except what's there, and I will have no expectations, not even of the expected. I will leave the soaring shadows of April behind, and accept the Vulture as one more pretty birdie of the Spring.
April 20, 2003
Easter
It seems the Lenten war is winding down, saving us the embarrassment of an Easter offensive.Now for the pangs of rebirth.
War has a way of leveling our differences, when it doesn't exacerbate them. The nation is unified, rallying to the cause; the hesitant are carried along in the momentum, while those who would resist are ostracized into another sort of sameness.
Many of the DMTree pages have been preoccupied with the war, generally casting a critical eye on the means and motives of our government. Some of us have participated in the public demonstrations, but these also present individuals as a mass. The online discussions have perhaps been more rewarding, and they have been heard, to the point of eliciting anonymous hate mail from fellow Americans who have determined that we are not one of them.
And yet, we are.
So here I am, retreading the familiar theme: I don't want to write about the war; I've got other things to think about; I resent the obligation on my attentions,
but I can't escape it.
No, there is no escape.
And this is as true for the victors as it is for the vanquished.
Although I could not hope for America to experience disaster in Iraq, this easy war may prove too stingy in its lessons. At least in the short term. But looking down the road, I fear for the soul of this nation, if there is such a thing. Certainly the war enthusiasts believe in a veritable American Holy Spirit, possessed of an innate goodness. Today, on what is supposedly our highest holy day, I feel obliged to point out the eminently un-Christian nature of such self-justifying faith.
That we are sinners is the basic premise of the Christian. To be rescued from this condition is the concern of the individual, not the state, and salvation must be an ongoing proposition, not a matter of a single ceremonial "rebirth" or mere statement of faith. Easter is not a commemoration of an historical event; it is the observation of a mystical event which continues to occur. This is why the Holiday is coincident with the Springtide, for there must always be another Spring, and another birth. As soon as we are certain of our spiritual achievement it disappears; we do but hold a sinecure unwarranted.
Rebirth begins in doubt, not in the smug certainty and confidence of Power.
America, that little confederation of colonies that defied an empire, has always been a country that roots for the underdog. We have maintained a delicate balance of power between individual and community. Now it seems that we are to become the empire, and the individual must be subservient to some caricature of patriotism. Will we jettison all our cherished mythologies? Will we make movies where the Romans are the heroes? Where the corporation defeats the pesky whistleblower? Where the police bureaucracy outwits the lone detective? Or will we rely on hypocrisy to see us through a sea change?
Will we throw the lions to the Christians?
If we are to accept the notion that Christianity has found a special home here, then we should remember that the faith is particularly amenable to us because it was founded in opposition to empire. Most religions in the ancient world were associated with hereditary royal priesthoods, providing the premises and authority of governance. But Jesus preached to a defeated people. He offered them a gift no earthly ruler can bestow, but he did not offer, or choose to wield, earthly power. The irony of his ultimate success is that it was the cosmopolitan breadth of the Roman Empire that fostered the spread of the new religion beyond the typical bounds of ethnicity and geography.
Rome was reborn, in a strange new form, one that finds echoes in our age.
It is the nature of Rebirth that one cannot even imagine the experience beforehand, let alone the result. It is always a revelation. If we give ourselves over to it, even the familiar Springtime seems ineffably new. There is nothing new in the age-old human dream of comprehensive power, or the imposition of control in the false name of “security”. These are self-delusions; mistakes that have been made before. Today’s hope is that one day America, and all humanity, will move beyond these errors. Then we may be reborn in a form unrecognizable, yet necessary. We will abandon the empire of domination, and, as it was with Rome, the flowers of Spring will bloom among our ruins.
April 1, 2003
Now I Get It
I get fooled every time.I'm always ready to believe the worst:
Winter without end; the end of everything, all withering away, wasting
into nothing; snowless cold emptiness;
vast gulfs
of nothing ever again growing,
and why should it?
What's the use in replenishing this destitute earth?
Then it comes forth:
poking through the old year;
unfolding; expanding fragile filaments stronger than granite;
reviving; sighing; no subsiding…
exchanging dun for green, the Winter done for;
every year, April fools me.
March 26, 2003
A Red Spring
Spring is truly here at last.It even feels like it, which is not always the case in March. A week of warming weather has soothed the departing ache of Winter. The ice is gone; the ground is soft and damp, forgetting last year's drought. Soon the public fountains will flow once more. Last year they were restricted: the sort of deprivation one might expect in wartime, but there was no correlation. Then or now. War cannot stop the Spring, nor does it touch us much here, but it taints the heart that seeks to open toward the season. The constant flow of news from abroad is like psychic rennet, curdling a consciousness that should be sweetened by the lyricism of the Land.
Even so, I follow the old pattern, walking to the Meadow slope where the old Red Maple still stands. The species is not particularly long-lived, but this tree has survived many an Oak, or Beech, or Ash that might have thought to outlast it. We lost a lot of fine trees, young and old, this past Winter, the Christmas ice storm being particularly destructive. Plying the dialectic of the forest and the tree, one sees them both diminished, and the sprouts are at best the hope of some future generation.
But the Maple still stands.
Its flowers initiate the Springtide.
I've seen it bloom before the end of February in some of the mild Winters we've had of late, but this year things are on a slower schedule, and the staminate puffs of red and yellow were only full blown upon the Equinox itself. I've tried not to endlessly repeat myself on this page, (though repetition is a major theme here,) but these blossoms are the one thing I've shown each year: an orientation point for the rising life force; impervious to our worries, but reflective nonetheless.
Red in the season of Green.
I show them once again.
March 20, 2003
Spring is a Garden Good Enough for Us
The Vernal Equinox occurs tonight at eight o'clock, so tomorrow, the twenty first, is the first real day of Spring. That's the usual date, but it wanders a bit, because the Earth's orbit is an imprecisely divisible ellipse rather than a circle, and because the planet tilts a bit, and because things in the Heavens are no more perfect than they are in our World.In a perfect world, Spring would bring renewal, rebirth, and hope. We will get green grass, no doubt; the trees will fill with leaves and birds, as they have before, but hope... what hope dare we harbor when Spring comes in on gusts of war?
I cannot bring myself to hope the war goes badly, whatever that might mean. If our war goes well, then it must be going badly for someone else. It's all bad, but even though I toy with the notion of a comeuppance, I still think and speak of this nation as "us" and "we"; "ours" and even "mine". These little words are the largest measure of my support in this endeavor: I cannot wish us ill.
But we defile the season.
The Equinox is balance.
Day and night equally divided.
As the Sun begins to predominate, the weather will grow warmer.
America is shining like the Sun, surging towards an imperial Summer.
If the war goes "well", as I fear it must, then our best hope may be in keeping our own balance, for the World is so unbalanced by our preeminence that equality itself is threatened, even though we may believe that we are its enforcer.
We welcome back the Sun after a bitter Winter, but let us remember last year's drought. Too much Sun will parch and scorch even our own paradisiacal corner of the World, rendering it but the equal of that distant desert which now lies where the first Garden grew.
Spring brings a paradise to us each year, but war is no way to reenter Eden.
March 17, 2003
Go Green
On Saint Patrick's Day I make the effort to wear something green. The hue is a chief symbol of the day, and more than harps or leprechauns, it goes beyond Celticism per se, for who can lay claim to a color? Ireland may call itself the Emerald Isle, but Green, in shades from chartreuse through hunter, is coming soon even to the center of our local island.It can't come soon enough.
Green has always been my favorite color, ever since I was very young and endorsed it because I thought that dinosaurs were green. By now, the idea of one color being better than another seems politically incorrect, but I am convinced that some have greater moment than others...
Musing on it, I ponder how Green is the color of growth, but also of putrid, decaying death. Yet the Green of rot is also the Green of growth, albeit on a smaller scale, as Life recycles itself.
We don't like to think about death and decomposition, whatever the color. It takes the geologic distance of fossilization to make such realities approachable, as in the form of the dinosaurs, beloved of children everywhere. The dinosaurs provide a scientifically sanctioned gateway into the Mysteries, via authorized stories about who-we-are-and-how-we-got-here. Since these fundamental ideas are otherwise ill addressed, it's no wonder that children are drawn to the charismatic figures of the prehistoric giants, who take on the characteristics of initiatory guardians.
The fascination with dinosaurs is one of my earliest memories. Like the gods, they are real-yet-not-real; nowhere to be found in this World, except in artifacts endorsed and explicated by certain guardians of "the truth," who may attest to their reality. I was one of those kids that knows all about dinosaurs, but much of what I knew has now changed, as science updates itself.
For one thing, I knew they were green.
Green is a conventional color for reptiles, in coloring books and cartoons, and in the popular imagination. Greenness marks the dinosaur as the Other, for people, (and mammals in general,) are very much not green, except in metaphorical envy, or physical illness. Science has come to recognize that dinosaurs most likely enjoyed a range of coloration as wide as that of their descendants, the birds, but Green, today's color of nostalgia, is hard to let go of, especially in the case of a class which has only a past, and no future.
It may be that our future depends on a clearer understanding of our relationship to the Other. The issue is reflected in the difficulty we have in reconciling our Humanity with our animal ancestry. Changing the color of the dinosaurs is a way of mediating this relationship; of being more honest about our common ancestry, but as Saint Patrick's Day proves, we will still be left longing for the Green of the Old Country, or the old serpent, so summarily expelled. As anodyne I offer an exotic alternative, in the form of the one green mammal: the Sloth.
The Sloth is not really green in and of itself, but during the rainy season algae grows on its gray-brown coat, providing camouflage, and a virid reminder that the true keepers of the Green Mystery are the Plants. They are the main source of the color, and the foremost embodiment of Otherness among living things; alien to us ambulatory animals, yet intrinsic to our existence. To them Saint Patrick owes his hue: to the old sod, rather than any gemstone. Not the emerald isle, but the kingdom of chlorophyll.
If Saint Patrick's Day is to be a Holiday outside of Ireland, then it should have new symbols. What could be more fitting than a slow-moving, tree-hugging, American mammal, inverted amid the verdure, with plants actually growing on it? Let's welcome Spring with a glass and a Bradypus: the Green Man for the new millennium. Fear not for saurians of the past; the dinosaurs are gone for birds of many colors, but if you can't grow a green coat of your own, at least wear one.
March 5, 2003
Ash Wednesday
Lent seems almost beside the point this year. Or perhaps too pointed for us to readily embrace. Mortification is in the offing, but rather than show a willingness to give anything up, our nation is demanding that the rest of the World surrender everything to us. The actual sacrifice required of America is hardly being discussed. It does not appear that the cost of war will be assumed as a spiritualizing ascesis, rather it will be extracted in the usual way, from those least able (or willing) to pay.Our days are already Lenten, pleasures suspended; rendered unfulfilling. Not by accident the season occupies the livid landscape of the guttering late Winter. And a brutal Winter it has been, but the political gamesmanship is even more agonizing, and one has the awful desire simply to get it all over with. Surely forty days should be enough? Then back to Spring, and business as usual...
But there is no good end that way, no change in humanity's historical habit of self-destruction.
The pale gestures of Lent, if offered sincerely, can change us.
Even the little denials, the cigarette not smoked; the chocolates not indulged in; the unnecessary purchase forgone, even these will make different people of us, if we follow through on the implications of the abnegation. The denial is just a tool, used to effect a greater change. By altering a habit we depend on, we unleash our capacity for transformation; our ability to change into new, and we hope, better, people. Which is to say, we have the chance to be reborn.
Lent is meant as a period of reflection, meditation and self-restraint, which prepares us to face the Mystery of Rebirth. We desecrate the Mystery if we equate it with victory in battle. Fighting a Lenten war seems impropitious to me. If we can just resist for this little while the urge to glut upon our violent strength, (for we have better strengths,) if we can restrain ourselves for the duration, at the end of our ascesis we may find that war is not the necessity we thought, after all.
But if we decided that it is, we can still go ahead and attack, on Easter Sunday, and really show the rest of the World what kind of "Christian nation" they're dealing with.
February 25, 2003
Had Enough Yet?
February 17, 2003
Putting the Politics in Park
I’m on record as being dubious about Presidents Day as an appropriate Holiday, but it’s here again and I’m stuck with it. At the risk of trivializing the impending war, I’m going to use the occasion to discuss a meaner use of political power, in as much as we have a current situation directly affecting Central Park.The go-ahead has been given for a large-scale art installation in the Park, a project by the husband and wife artist team of Christo and Jeanne-Claude entitled The Gates. These gates are banners of bright orange fabric, supported by metal poles. Thousands of them are to be erected, lining miles of the Park’s pathways and dominating the landscape for two weeks in February of 2005.
The project was first proposed in 1979 and was rejected by the Parks Commission. It’s not hard to see why. People who are concerned with the Park for its own sake will generally have a negative reaction to such an imposition of ego and hardware onto “our” Park. That the idea has resurfaced, and been accepted, appears to be the direct result of the current mayor’s friendship with the artists. Such are the perks of power.
Of course the birdwatchers are against it. And I must admit that I partake of the revulsion. Indeed, the resistance is so febrile that it must itself bear investigation. Certainly there is an element of not-in-my-backyardism. We haven’t come up with any truly powerful ecological argument against the project. After some basic concessions, like using self-supporting bases instead of digging holes for the poles, it looks as if the piece can be mounted without leaving a permanent scar. It’s said the billowing fabric could disturb some birds, but this doesn’t seem to be a terrible problem. They’re known to acclimate to such things, and February is a time of relatively little activity. When I was asked for arguments against it, I offered that Christo is a lousy artist. That’s not really a practical argument, and was said as a joke, but it’s more or less what it comes down to.
I’ve never liked Christo/Jeanne-Claude much. Again, I want to question my motives, as the attitude goes back to my days as an art student, when it was just “Christo”. I thought of him as a vulgar popularizer of the then contentious “earth art” movement. I don’t think the critique is entirely wrong, though I’ve tried to give him a chance, and some of the works are at least attractive, but the artist I compare him to unfavorably is Robert Smithson, the main protagonist of earth art, and an important figure in my own development. From the mid-sixties until his untimely death in 1973, Smithson was a provocative and invigorating force in the art world, and his influence was still strong when I came to New York a few years after he died. He moved sculpture beyond formalism and out of the gallery with his landscape-based “earthworks” like The Spiral Jetty, and, just as importantly, with his writings.
One landscape of particular interest to Smithson was Central Park. In his last published essay, Frederick Law Olmsted and the Dialectical Landscape, Smithson adopts the Park’s designer as an ancestor: “America’s first ‘earthwork artist’ ”. (As usual, Vaux gets short shrift.) Smithson was interested in contrasts and contradictions; Olmsted’s picturesque remaking of what was then a bleak wasteland in mid-Manhattan served as a mirror image of his own abstract incursions into the disrupted or “entropic” sites he favored for his projects. This “dialectical” equivalence serves to remind us that the Park is a work of art in and of itself.
This may be the most substantive argument Park lovers have against The Gates. It’s not about the Park’s ecology, but the Park’s place in the cultural ecology of New York City. Central Park is a sacrosanct work of art which should not be subject to the humiliation of having another work of art superimposed upon it. It was with good reason Smithson preferred to do his work in the desert, or a quarry, or an abandoned salt mine.
Well, this is almost true. But a park, however artful, is not quite the same as a work of art. It is used in a different way, and its use is subject to political pressures. Olmsted himself was finally forced out as the Park’s Commissioner by changing political (and demographic) tides which “democratized” the Park. Throughout its history there has been a dialectic between an “elitist” and a “populist” concept of the Park. It was conceived by cultured (and wealthy) people who wanted a park to match the great public places of Europe, and also to increase the value of real estate uptown. Theirs was a Romantic view of Nature, by way of American Transcendentalism. The Park would be for quiet contemplation and relaxation. The lower classes, in so far as they had access, would be edified by the models both of Nature and of their social betters.
I will say that my own use of the Park is basically in this elitist tradition. I do find that close contemplation is instructive, on many levels. And not that I’m jealous of it, but there is a certain elitism inherent in birdwatching; in seeing what most others do not see. I hope I harbor no class animosities, but I avoid the noisy crowd. Still, I fancy myself, like Smithson, a dialectician, and I have sought in these pages to give fair consideration to that which I have rejected. I am certainly dedicated to the proposition that the people of the city, all the people, should be able to enjoy their Park. Unfortunately, in so doing, we are apt to destroy it.
The story of the Park since Olmsted’s day is generally of a shift towards serving this broader public, with “natural” and picturesque features sacrificed to accommodate active recreation, team sports, and larger gatherings. The nadir was reached under the autocratic Commissioner Robert Moses, when paving proliferated and automobiles were encouraged. These remains the worst desecrations the Park has ever suffered, and a great deal of its artistic integrity must have been sacrificed in the process.
Once the postwar money ran out, the Park was allowed to deteriorate. Maintenance funds were cut while age and heavy usage took their toll. By the time Smithson wrote about it, in 1973, Central Park had numerous decrepit features, and a reputation as a mugger’s playground. The pendulum didn’t start to swing back until the next decade, with the creation of the Central Park Conservancy.
The Conservancy is a sort of public/private partnership, in which the City has ceded the better part of its management authority in order to obtain the philanthropic benefit of a group which somewhat resembles the original patrons of the Park: high-minded, well-intentioned, and not above self-interest. They have raised huge amounts of money, and accomplished a lot of badly needed restoration. In the process, they’ve also pimped the Park to various corporate interests, allowing massive events like the Disney movie premiere which trashed the Great Lawn immediately before its restoration. The same thing happened to the North Meadow, where a stadium-scale concert was held prior to a year-long maintenance project. By incorporating destruction into the rebuilding process the Conservancy has engaged in its own sort of dialectic, but they’re running out of places to work with. Lately it’s the smaller East Meadow that has been used for rallies and concerts, and it has been reduced to a dustbowl, with no sign of immediate improvement. Meanwhile, I’m starting to hope that they never get around to “fixing” the old Lily Ponds and the rest of the North Woods.
The Gates project, I think, belongs with the Disney movies and the amplified concerts, and none of them belong in the Park. The Christo/Jeanne-Claude team has become an artistic trademark which can be applied to any landscape, without regard. Their pretense of incorporating the planning and construction activities into the artwork per se seems to me a hollow borrowing from the techniques of conceptual and process art, delivered in a sort of corporate happy-speak. The account of their Umbrellas project given on their website does not even mention that two of their workers were killed in the service of their “art process”. They do not develop what Smithson would call a dialectic of the landscape; they simply put their mark, orange fabric, upon it.
At the end of his essay Smithson actually proposes an artwork for the Park. Despite his fascination with entropy and decay, Smithson felt that Olmsted’s great work should be maintained. Viewing the debris strewn mud slough that had developed in the Pond, he envisioned a “mud extraction sculpture”, a real process piece, including a documentary film following the transportation of the mud from point of extraction to point of deposition on “a site in the city that needs ‘fill’ ”. In typically dense fashion, Smithson combines public works with avant-garde art to the point of self-parody. Such humor seems alien to Christo’s pompous work, and his overweening project does the Park no service, either.
Needless to say, Smithson’s film was never made, but the Conservancy did finally finish rehabilitating the Pond, just last year. It only took three decades. Still, that’s the sort of thing they should stick to, and not go getting mixed up in the art world. But I guess we have the mayor to thank for that, and as long as politicians are getting such fringe benefits, I’d say they’re well enough compensated, and not in need of Holidays of their own.
February 14, 2003
Valentine from a Park in Winter
Winter doesn't love us muchThe leaves of Fall, the Summer lawns, are gone
And Spring's blooms but a rumor
Yet to come, yet to come
The heart of Winter holds its warmth
Close to the breast and blows a kiss
That freezes on the wing
Brittle wind, brittle wind
Wind and wing
And water sharp as shattered glass
Winter loves us not at all
But love it back, love it back
Seasonless through passing time
We will love as love we can
Winter-tested hearts aflame
Valentine, Valentine
February 2, 2003