the parsley.blog.landscape.life

go ahead. just try and mess with me, and see how far you get.
Gerhard Marcks, “Freya,” Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden, UCLA.

at the Olympic Sculpture Park in Seattle, there is a Richard Serra sculpture called “Wake.”

Olympic Sculpture Park, Seattle

looking down at the sculpture from the pavilion, which occupies the highest corner of the park, it invites you to come closer. those wavy forms look like they are going somewhere, and you might want to tag along for the ride, to get up close to them and discover the secret of their purposefulness.

and that deep orange-brown color seems to assert something tough and industrial amid the young trees and new plantings (this picture was taken in Fall 2007; the park must be more grown in by now.)  the site of the Olympic Sculpture Park used to be an oil-transfer facility, and no doubt there are ghosts of the place’s industrial past hanging about, not to mention the spirits of ships,  which still seem adventurous to me even though the ships here would have been oil tankers and their tasks quite routine.

we are not quite sure how we feel about that bland corporate presence in our background.
Richard Serra, “Wave”, Olympic Sculpture Park, Seattle

I find that all my pictures of “Wave” are pretty rotten, with an underexposed black hole on the shadowy side of each element (it was a ridiculously idyllic sunny day when I was there – and they tell me that Seattle is rainy!)  but never mind that.  what I did capture, here and there, was people coming up to the sculpture and doing what they have been asked, most nicely, not to do.

Olympic Sculpture Park, Seattle

someone is TOUCHING THE ART. Richard Serra, “Wave,” Olympic Sculpture Park, Seattle

I used an image of that plaintive little blue sign recently, in a post on a subject other than art.  but was reminded of it again when I was on campus at UCLA, getting a few pictures of the Murphy Sculpture Garden over the holiday weekend.

Gerhard Marcks, “Maja,” Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden, UCLA

there’s a nice big Serra at UCLA, too.  its name is T.E.U.C.L.A., for Torqued Ellipse UCLA.

“T.E.U.C.L.A.”, Richard Serra

artists and architects alike love Cor-Ten steel.  what’s not to love?  look at the skin it gets. it is a kind of patina that forms, rusty-looking, but very stable and protective.  so I am told.

I reflected before, in a post called “the touch gallery,” on how art outdoors immediately becomes art you can handle.  art indoors – unless you own it, and usually not even then – hands off.  I was well trained not to so much as point at a painting while discussing it with someone, lest I trip and give a painting an inadvertent poke.  but outdoors?  where the work is already subject to the wind, the weather, the birds, the squirrels, freeze and thaw, earthquakes, acid rain?  we can attempt to add a little layer of protection from the additional threat of human hands, try to enforce some sense of respect, but such efforts seem doomed to be overwhelmed.  it certainly seems to even a casual glance that the Serra up at UCLA has been taking quite a beating  – the more so because it has a conveniently secluded interior, within which an additional level of mayhem seems possible.

I don’t know enough about Cor-Ten steel to know how much of this damage can be cleaned off, or repaired. some of what I saw were actual gouges, but most of it seemed like surface markings. some, the casual side effect of the irrestible urge to touch; some seemed more like deliberate attacks.

there was a story, a little while ago, about a woman in a museum who tripped and stuck her hand through a Picasso. and another story, a few more years ago than that, of the casino owner who had a painting – another Picasso – and was getting ready to sell it, when he got too excited talking about it with his dinner guests and backed into the painting and ripped it. these kinds of stories seem so horrible, as if a terrible unforgivable sin has been committed. I asked my personal art historian about this (everyone should have one, they are very useful) and she just about pshawed my ear off.  “it’s a painting! they can fix it! stuff happens!” and, she added, she was amazed that more stuff doesn’t happen, even though there are guards and rules, with so many paintings hanging in so many museums all over the world.

we both decided, far worse: the destruction of the Mayan codices, the burning of the library at Alexandria, the Taliban blowing up those stone Buddhas in Bamiyan – the willful silencing of the voices of the past.

when we create things and put them before the world, some degree of attrition, some level of risk, seems inevitable; and all our works are perishable as we are. our creations occasionally enjoy the privilege of dying a little more slowly than we do, but we shouldn’t mistake their life spans for eternity. (I spend enough time in cemeteries to have some thoughts on that subject.)

George Tsutakawa, “Obos 69,” Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden, UCLA

the Murphy Sculpture Garden is a truly world-class collection. it’s easy to forget this, when it’s so close by, and free, and so familiar. a quick photo expedition turned into a little more time and energy than I had planned to spend, but that’s the price I pay for getting interested in something other than own perilous physical condition. I’m willing to pay it, once in a while. along with the other things I need, I need art, and food for thought, and to ponder the question: how vulnerable is art?  is it stronger than we think it is?

Francisco Zuniga, “Mother With Child At Her Hip,” Franklin D. Murphy Sculpture Garden

she’s a bruiser, no doubt.  I wouldn’t want to cross her if I could possibly help it.  but then again…

Robert Graham, “Dance Column I”

I think this dame is pretty formidable too.  this picture makes her look big, but she’s really a little doll-like figure, balanced on top of a column next to her sister. you or I would find her position precarious, but look at the expression on her face. she’s not up there because she climbed up to get away from anybody. she’s up there because she knows exactly what she can do, and she would like you to know it too.

Robert Graham, “Dance Column II”