So hey, speaking of statuary, like ten million years ago, my mom and stepdad worked at Oregon’s public art commission, which was dinky, as one might expect. Where they met, actually.
Mom was a painter. My stepdad was a sculptor and served on the Indian Arts Council (I think that was what it was called at the time) which meant that he spent a lot of time muttering about how nobody wanted to commission native artists unless it was for “beads and feathers.”
Which is a whole nother topic not particularly relevant to the discussion, but man, public art slush piles will scar you in your tender teen years, believe me.
Anyhow, so they were at the public art division, wedged into tiny offices in Salem, Oregon. Super tiny. I imagine you either started dating or had to kill one another tiny. And the big huge project that year was SOS! Save Outdoor Sculpture! (Mom hated the exclamation point.)
Basically they had to go around and find every single piece of public or semi-public outdoor sculpture, check its condition, and assess its conservation needs. Which meant a lot of time at the library, because the internet in ‘93 was not exactly a hotbed of art conservation.
And even more time just driving all over the state going “is that an Art? Do we have to count it? Shit. I’ll get the forms.” I was a teenager and to keep me from premarital sex and drugs that summer*, I was an intern.
*This ship had sailed.
*This ship had sailed.
I saw some shit that summer, and not just because my stepdad passed the joint when Mom wasn’t looking. First of all, the majority of outdoor sculptures fall on a spectrum between forgettable and regrettable.
Like, this actually had government funding, but I think they spent most of it washing the acid rain off the murals at the capitol. And everybody wanted to do Portland and the good totem poles and whatnot, so Mom and I got Southern Oregon.
Southern Oregon is...look, I realize everybody thinks Oregon is full of hippies, and tie-dye does indeed run in my veins, but if hippies are the acid trip, Southern Oregon is the next day when you have two neurotransmitters to your name and your tongue feels like shag carpet.
Grant’s Pass has a giant caveman. They’re proud of it, it was maintained. Somebody had a gigantic three story Dumbo-esque crow outside of a grocery store. It was maintained. I got food poisoning in Grant’s Pass from a questionable turkey club.
(Assessing outdoor sculpture is not improved by the raging shits. I just want to throw that out there.)
But there was also just a lot of...stuff. Is that rock a sculpture? I guess. Bronze cowboy? Yeah, sure. Fiberglass bull? Whatever, get a form.
The one that sticks in my memory now is a bronze statue of Lincoln on a horse, and it was just...really bad. Like, Lincoln was heroic scale, right? But the horse wasn’t. Heroic Lincoln’s arms were longer than the horse’s legs. And his head was huge.
The plaque said that it was donated by “the Sculptress.” Mom said that out loud like five times, while giggling. As I recall, Lincoln had taken a bit of a beating from the elements and local birds. This was duly noted on the form.
Hot damn, the commenters jogged my memory. The Black Bird! Yes! Here’s a photo. 
I could have spent that summer reading Silver RavenWolf and smoking weed, and I got that bird instead.
Which, y’know, fair.
Which, y’know, fair.
(And people wonder why I try to explain that Oregon is just Like That.)
Damn, my readers are amazing! https://t.co/9fKr0om590
And then there’s Ashland. Oh, Ashland.
They tried to get artists to design a playground. A lot of it was not well conceived. Like, a giant metal wedge may be interesting abstract art, but it’s gonna overheat and fuse some kid’s pull-ups to his skin.
They tried to get artists to design a playground. A lot of it was not well conceived. Like, a giant metal wedge may be interesting abstract art, but it’s gonna overheat and fuse some kid’s pull-ups to his skin.
No, absolutely correct! That might have been a different trip.
https://t.co/ci9tgsfQxZ
https://t.co/ci9tgsfQxZ
Ashland is the hippie theater town in the middle of Southern Oregon. It knows it is the bastion of all that is good and weird, so it tries extra hard. Also the water is full of lithium.
No, really, it’s called Lithia springs in Lithia park.
No, really, it’s called Lithia springs in Lithia park.
My ex is from Ashland. I may have theories. But anyway! Sculpture! Getting distracted!
Days spent slogging around looking at outdoor sculpture, and you know what? Absolutely no one cares about it 99% of the time. Not enough to conserve it or even write down the address.
Days spent slogging around looking at outdoor sculpture, and you know what? Absolutely no one cares about it 99% of the time. Not enough to conserve it or even write down the address.
And when they DO care, they care about stuff like the caveman or the freaky ass giant mutant bird. Those were in great shape! But no one really cares about historical statues. These people whining about history only care to Own The Libs or whatever.
This stuff gets crammed in out of the way parks or the back stairwell and the same people shrieking about heritage would have a coronary if you suggested something like Oregon’s Percent For Art to help conserve the damn things.
Mostly it’s a lot of crap somebody stuck there and forgot about. Donated By The Sculptress. Etc. Until somebody says “maybe we shouldn’t celebrate this asshole” and suddenly people are falling out of the woodwork to tell you how that statue is VITAL.
Bah. Tear it all down, says I. Put up a couple dozen giant mutant birds or something. They’re cheaper to maintain and people actually remember them fondly.
Or at least we’d all be equally uncomfortable, regardless of race or creed, and y’know, these days I’m willing to give that a shot.
