Lost this week in the flurry of shocking events in Minneapolis and on the nation's streets was the May 31 death of environmental artist Christo Javacheff, known professionally as Christo. He was 84.
With his wife, Jeanne-Claude, who died in 2009, Christo specialized in massive sculptural pieces that shrouded iconic architecture and intruded on landscapes and lakes with colorful fabric, fences and floating walkways. Christo's artistic purpose was to jolt the logic and emotions of viewers and stimulate wonderment and joy, especially among detractors who scoffed at his work. The bigger the better, he felt, and his artworks were indeed impossibly large, leaving eyes wide and mouths hanging open.
In 2005, I had the good fortune to experience one of Christo and Jeanne-Claude's works in New York. On February 12, a bright sunny but frosty morning, 7,503 orange vinyl "gates" were unfurled at 8:30 a.m. from their tall rectangular frames along 23 miles of pathways in Central Park.
In the weeks leading up to the event, debates raged in the media over whether "The Gates" was truly art or an outdoor pop stunt. Some were outraged, arguing that it didn't belong in Central Park—a 19th century man-made woodland of perfection. Others insisted the work was little more than an ego-trip by media-hungry artists hanging their saffron laundry out to dry.
All of it was nonsense. I loved "The Gates." I loved the idea when it was announced, and I was over the moon when it was unveiled. On the morning of the 12th, I was steps from Christo and Jeann-Claude and Mayor Bloomberg. New York's chief executive was a remarkable supporter and patron of the arts and amused by the uproar. Christo had been trying to get "The Gates" installed for decades in New York, only to be rebuffed by mayors who cowardly feared being chastised by critics, Central Park conservationists and constituents. Bloomberg was the only one who saw the creative value and grace of such a grand-scale project, not to mention its seductive impact on visitors. He got it and gave the green light. I've admired him ever since.
From February 12 to 27, all of those sheer, saffron-orange vinyl sheets snapped and swayed in the winter wind, setting gray days ablaze. The waterproof material hung down and stopped about 7 1/2 feet from the ground, so everyone could pass under them without the material hitting their heads. But if you were at least 6 feet tall, you could reach up with your fingers and brush against the material.
A day after "The Gates" opened, a strange thing happened. The park grew increasingly crowded with doubters strolling along the walkways, bathing in the orange glow as their inner child came alive. People got it, emotionally, without having to be convinced. It made sense to the soul, and that's all that mattered.
I crossed the park nearly every day just to experience Christo's vision and sensation. There was something about that sheer saffron-orange in the dead of winter that made you feel alive. And interestingly, the color seemed to change with the light, depending on the mood of the day. On gray, bitter days, the orange was muted and brooding, almost brownish. Yet the flapping material still managed to turn the white florescent landscape into a slalom of orange or rows of orange juice served on a white tablecloth. On days of brilliant sunshine, the orange came alive, virtually shouting with happiness. Then there were the sounds of the material in the wind, at times muttering and at other time bickering.
When "The Gates" came down on the 27th, part of me went with them. I had viewed them as a great work of music never to be heard again. Something alive was removed and silenced. The pleasure that the material's color and sound brought to the bewildered park was gone. Squirrels no longer stopped to stare while chewing on something between their front paws. Kids on fathers' shoulders no longer reached up to touch them. And older strollers no longer could be heard debating their pros and cons. Something had been given to the city and was taken away in the brief span of 16 days. Gone forever. The circus had left town.
So it's somewhat ironic that Christo should leave us this past week without fanfare, under the shroud of national chaos. In the end, his death became the greatest disappearing act of all. One day he was here. And the next, he was gone without a trace, becoming, as Jeanne-Claude once said, "Once upon a time."
Here's a 60 Minutes segment on Christo and Jeanne-Claude and "The Gates"...
Here's a slide show...
Here's "The Gates" bracing against wind and snow...
Here's more...
And here's another...
