We spent the bright part of Sunday at the Olympic Sculpture Park trying to understand what the hub bub was about. It was too windy to read the newspaper insert about the sculptures, so I just listened to what everyone else mused. “That lady over there said it was about global warming. So I think it’s about global warming.” None of the art “spoke” to me, but then again, I don’t get smooth jazz either or people who slather butter on croissants because dude, that’s made with butter.
This piece is entitled, “Bench.” I wonder why. There are signs everywhere that say do not touch. But are we allowed to use it as a bench? If it’s not meant to be used, there should be spikes and a moat with alligators around it.
I did like that you could see the Space Needle from many areas, but that’s because I love the Space Needle. It’s our country’s finest needle.
I’m sure the Bench spoke to Nathan about the spread of Communism through Eastern Europe. Either that or poop. My money’s on poop.
I loved the wide walkways perfect for families, couples, and strollers. I did not enjoy however, Beverly Peppers’ explanation of her artwork. It reads: “The abstract language of form that I have chosen has become a new way to explore an interior life of feeling…I wish to make an object that has a powerful presence, but is at the same time inwardly turned, seeming capable of intense self-absorption.”
Doesn’t that statement seem a little, self-absorbed? I felt like I was back in my short-story writing class with the idiot, who smoked pot in the woods and got water for his bong from a puddle, explaining that the robots added to the “dream of fiction.” I’m sure I could come up with the same abstract drivel if I were paid millions to chip away at a rock or on some serious peyote trip.
The “Do Not Touch” caveat burns me. Why couldn’t Paul Allen spend a couple of million more on materials that would stand my exploratory hands? I WANT TO TOUCH. I can understand not touching paintings at the Louvre, but this is a park. Instead, there are security guards on bikes, vulturing around and warning people to keep their paws off. I’m still pissed at Paul Allen over building Qwest Field so he could recreate the experience he had growing up and going to games with his dad. Whatever. Now thanks to you, the Super Bowl will NEVER come to Seattle.