Cellphone photo at the Albany Historical Society
Our next statue, “Nydia,” was chosen because its creator was born in my hometown.
I wanted to discuss the intellectual and aesthetic question “Why is this artist’s most famous work, the most-replicated statue by an America sculptor, during the 19th century, like a chronic sinus infection?”
The answer to the question: Drip, drip, drip.
I’ll explain the dripping in just a sec.
I am from Waterloo, NY.
If you ask people in my village, the only famous person from here is a football coach, named Coughlin.
He’s depicted in a mural, painted on the side of a bar on Main St., overlooking a vacant lot where they play quoits. Genuine old-time residents pronounce his name like a cat hacking up a hairball.
Runner-up is a guy named Gridley, who invented an improved washboard. (No kidding. It was curved.)
The back of the village garage, which faces a defunct grocery store, and a crumbling, unusable bridge, has a mural, showing two more local heroes: Murray & Welles, who began the village’s Memorial Day observances in 1866.
Then one day, by chance, I found out that one of the most successful American sculptors of the 19th Century was born here.
Not only is there no statue of him in Waterloo, but in all seriousness,
I’ve never once heard his name mentioned in his birthplace.
It’s Randolph Rogers. Born 6 July 1825.
You can see his works in parks, galleries, and the better sort of cemeteries in NYC, Hartford, Gettysburg, Cincinnati, Detroit, Richmond, Philadelphia, Washington, etc.
His “Columbus Doors,” all 20,000 pounds of them, are the main entrance to the U.S Capitol. They’re an homage to Lorenzo Ghiberti’s Renaissance masterpiece, the “Gates of Paradise” in Florence.
Randolph Roger’s versions are 17′ tall, and depict everyday life in Columbus, Ohio, during a political convention.
One one door, a stylized border of venial sins surrounds panels with scenes of graft, extortion, lobbying, malfeasance, pettyfogging, etc. while the other door depicts the politicians’ torments in the afterlife.
Rogers created statues and busts of Adams, Lincoln, William Seward, General Lew Wallace (of “Ben Hur” fame), and allegorical figures like “The Genius of Connecticut” for the top of their statehouse. (This last one was later re-named “We’re All Above Average” and then melted down for scrap during WWII.)
His Civil War monuments include the Soldiers’ National Monument at Gettysburg.
The Seward statue is in Madison Square Park, in NYC, and was the subject of a scurrilous rumor that Rogers re-purposed a leftover Lincoln body and stuck on a Seward head. It’s simply not true. The proportions are fine – Seward just had a small head, relative to his body and nose.
(Henry Adams wrote that he had “a head like a wise macaw.“)
And one of Roger’s statues has replicas in almost every big art gallery in the U.S.A.
The work is called “Nydia”
It was the most popular American sculpture of the 19th Century.
Nydia is based on a character in a book called “The Last Days of Pompeii” (1834).
The author, Bulwer-Lytton, was a politican-novelist, and poet-playwright. It-is-all-about-hyphens-with-this-guy.
The book was a huge hit.
And it’s absolutely unreadable. I know that, because I tried. Really. Cannot be done.
I mean, I have an exceptionally high tolerance for tedium. I can show you my survivor badge for “One Thousand PowerPoint Presentations” and once, I stayed awake for 3 ½ minutes of “Twilight.” But this book – – I lasted one page.
Here’s the beginning:
“’HO, Diomed, well met! Do you sup with Glaucus to-night?’ said a young man of small stature, who wore his tunic in those loose and effeminate folds which proved him to be a gentleman and a coxcomb.”
Doesn’t that just make you long for a dark & stormy night, so you could rub out the author before he writes anything else?
“Sup with Glaucus”?? Why no, I finally got a prescription for Amoxicillin and it cleared up that Supping Glaucus, boy, I’m glad to be done with all that Mucus and Phlegma.
But it turns out, Glaucus is not a medical condition, it is the hero. And he and Nydia live in Pompeii.
And also a type of sea gull, I looked it up in Wikipedia.
“The glaucous gull …the second largest gull in the world. which breeds in Arctic regions of the Northern Hemisphere and winters south to shores of the Holarctic.”
I remember thinking that you might want to know that, but now I don’t know why.
(Didn’t you think for sure, Glaucus was a sinus or eye infection?)
One more sentence, and you’re done.
“Well, you must sup with me some evening; I have tolerable muraenae in my reservoir, and I ask Pansa the aedile to meet you.”
Well, sure, I’d love to sup, unless some clever blacksmith has invented tines, and then we could just eat with forks, like grownups, and stop all this supping crap.
Um, aedile is a type of Roman magistrate?
And I found, with a dawning sense of horror, that muraena is a type of Mediterranean moray.
So this idiot is bragging that his reservoir is infested with eels ?? and no doubt we’re going to be supping up jellied eels for dinner??
That’s not tolerable, it’s horrible.
It’s a long, convoluted lava flow of melodrama — there’s Greeks, Romans, Christians, the Cult of Isis, love potions, a witch, and eels.
Most of the characters are wiped out by the volcano, but not nearly soon enough.
Pompeii is depicted as a warped and decadent place, and yet, not fun. If anyone tried to get a good bacchanalia going, I’m sure Bulwer-Lytton threw a wet toga over it. His artistic conceit was clearly to deep-fry every sentence into agonized contortions, to mirror the bodies found in the ashes of Pompeii.
Better to dig up roasted Romans than to be engulfed and buried in this book – I never made it past the first page.
The book was a huge hit.
It was 1834. In three years, if you’d finished the book, Victoria would begin her reign, and you’d have 63 years, seven months, and two days of additional dullness ahead of you.
In the U.S., free from monarchies and elitist literature, we were celebrating Jacksonian Democracy and getting ready for bank failures, 25% unemployment, and a 7-year-long recession.
Most of this wasn’t Bulwer-Lytton’s fault, but he didn’t help.
So…some years after all that, I was in the Memorial Art Gallery in Rochester, NY and ran across a statue that I decided was called “The Toothache”.
At the sufferer’s feet rests the broken capital of a Corinthian column, symbolizing an impacted wisdom tooth.
But I was wrong.
It turned out that in 1861, inspired by the book, Randolph Rogers created this depiction of Nydia.
Nydia is guiding Glaucus, the hero, and the love of her life, through the eruption and ash-storm that was engulfing Pompeii, towards the harbor.
There he would be safe, and have lots of lovely eels to eat.
Her mission accomplished, Nydia then continues on, into the Mediterranean, and dies.
I don’t remember why, unrequited love I think, but she drowns, or maybe the eels get her, but she definitely dies.
It’s all very tragic, because she didn’t drag Glaucus and Bulwer-Lytton with her. Somebody really should have tied them all together and dropped them off a pier, attached to a Corinthian column.
I think Nydia washes up again, in the epilogue.
So, somehow, Randolph Rogers was inspired to depict Nydia, pre-drowning, but already drippy.
The statue was a huge hit.
It’s displayed in the big galleries in NYC, Washington, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia, Portland, Providence, L.A., and a whole lot more places.
In fact, Rogers replicated it 167 times (seriously).
Rogers didn’t actually chisel all these himself, of course. He had a workshop in Italy, where workmen cranked these out for Culture Tourists, in the days when a souvenir was a souvenir, and before snow globes were invented.
Here’s a mention in “A History of European and American Sculpture” by Chandler Rathon Post (1921):
“Randolph Rogers never found his vein. He tried his hand with tolerable results at several kinds of sculpture, but all his many productions suffer from a blight of dullness…his portrait statues…are fairly respectable performances in stiff rhetoric.”
Well, quite likely, you think I’m all wet, and ignorant, and that Nydia is a lovely statue. They have one in the Memorial Art Gallery, the National Art Gallery, the Met, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Chicago Institute of Art, etc. I’m tripping over this thing where ever I go.
But to my uneducated, rustic eye, it looks awkward, and a bit odd.
Like someone you’d feel bad for, if you ran across her downtown, and probably kind of avoid, because she’s hunched and her dress is half-off, and then you’d feel terrible, when it dawned on you that she was blind, and you weren’t sure if she was trying to cross the street, or if she was aware of her wardrobe malfunction, and depending on the angle, she’s either suffering from toothache, or is listening for something, like maybe an oncoming bus, or chariot, so you’d have to go back and hesitantly ask if she would like assistance in crossing the street, and she says, no, thank you, I’m actually listening for a volcanic eruption.
And until Mount Vesuvius actually blows, you’d think she was delusional, and should you call social services or something, the whole thing is awkward.
Oh, I forgot to mention that. The character was blind. I hadn’t realized this until I looked at the book, it’s hard to tell with a statue. The full title is “Nydia, The Blind Flower-Girl of Pompeii”.
It’s an interesting example of how tastes change. I don’t know if most people today, would be crazy for the statue, or the book. I’ve yet to find anyone who’s actually read Bulwer-Lytton. Because I’ve asked a lot of random people at airports, bus stops, restrooms, and bars, and only gotten funny looks. Apparently he’s really not popular anymore.
(Do you know he added a third Lytton to his name? Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton. Because having it only twice, you might forget?? Or to distract people from “Bulwer”?)
(Today, “Bulwer-Lytton-Lytton-Lytton Disorder is better known as “Compulsive Redundancy Syndrome.”)
Most of us tend to remember and focus on the good stuff. In the 1830’s, people were reading “Oliver Twist,” “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Lady of Shalott,” etc. But just like our own time, people consumed lots of not-so-wonderful stuff.
Maybe that’s the value of looking at “Pompeii” and “Nydia” – – for contrast, and to show just how wonderful the good writers and artists were. To remind ourselves, just how exceptional Dickens, Poe, Shelley, Hawthorne, Washington Irving, Byron, Emerson, Delacroix, etc. were.
In 1861, when the statue was unveiled, there were other horrible things happening, like Fort Sumter and the Battle of Bull Run, but there were also wonderful things: Church’s “The Icebergs,” Whistler’s “Symphony in White, No. 1,” Manet’s “Music in the Tuileries,” and Leutze’s “Westward Ho!” so Rogers can’t use the Civil War as an excuse.
Nydia is shown as she guides some Pompeii people through the blinding volcanic ash-cloud to safety – the man she loves, his girlfriend, and some really insistent people hawking postcards. That’s admirable, and that’s why she’s holding her hand to her ear.
Although I still say, she could have had a toothache, too, right? and that’s why she drowned herself, not the unrequited love thing.
The museum sign informs us, that the statue is evocative. But would you have understood the situation, if I hadn’t told you? That she’s listening for which way an exploding volcano is located? If she were a Labrador, would you guess that someone was blowing a dog whistle? Or figure, poor doggy, has a toothache.
Well, we’re all learning a lot from these statues, aren’t we.
And anyway, Randolph Rogers was born in my hometown, he was knighted by King Umberto I, and Art is in the eye of the beholder.
So is glaucoma, I did look it up, and it’s related to Glaucus, but I forget how. Something to do with seagulls.
P.S. Glaucus, glaucoma, and the seagull really are all related! But this post is way too long already.
An earlier, and I think, superior work, “Ruth Gleaning” (1850). As in the Book of Ruth in the Bible, and “gleaning” as in gathering up leftover barley.
And one final piece, “The Last Arrow” (1880) – – I wonder if his fellow Upstater, Frederic Remington, saw this, since it predates his bronzes by fifteen years. These two pictures are from the Met website.
I’ve always revered architects, and will often come to a complete halt to admire a building.
Even if that’s frustrating to the people behind me, honking their horns.
But while I love architecture, I’ve never really cared deeply about interior design.
So I didn’t immediately identify this statue as one of the founding fathers of interior decorating, Fritz Pingelig, in his day, draped in glory, and known throughout Europe (as well as the Sultanate of Brunei, and some parts of Abyssinia), as “The Iron Curtain” (or “Langsir Besi” in Malay, or “Yebireti Megareja” in Amharic).
He traveled the length and breadth of a war-torn continent, stitching together a more sophisticated lifestyle, advancing civilization yard by yard. And in the process, developing valance theory.
Pingelig felt strongly about home décor, and nothing in his plans was more important than curtains and drapery.
The statue depicts him with a curtain rod, draped in one of his baroque creations.
“I care not a pin for putting up walls, but envision a Running Fence of Fabric, separating culture from the abyss.”
During the endless strife during the Thirty Years War*, Pingelig somehow stayed neutral, traveling from court to court, castle to castle, on the rough corde du roi roads of the day, helping the hidebound to get over their hangups, introducing curtains and a bit of privacy to Europe.
“I can do nothing about this endless war,” he declared, “but at least I can oppose the drafts.”
He constantly exchanged ideas with other artists and architects of his day, through a network of messengers he called “The Silken Web.”
Whenever inspiration struck, usually in the wee hours, ensconced dans les toilettes, he would dash off a textile message.
The archive in Lisle, France preserves some of these notes, written in a tiny hand on scraps of cloth or foolscap – exhorting, self-promoting, criticizing – and they provide us a window into the past, and into Pingelig’s soul.
Essentially, he was mad as a hatter.
Somehow surviving a badly-frayed social fabric, and decades of warfare, his tragic death stemmed from his blind hatred for Venetian blinds.
“A window hanging is too good for them” he would often say.
He greeted each new acquaintance with the question “You know how to make a Venetian blind?”
followed by “Poke him in the eye!”
Then he would laugh maniacally.
He never got tired of that one.
And he had a sword, so most people shuttered, but laughed along.
Finally, he trotted out this joke to a visitor named Andrea Di Pietro della Gondola.
Who did not cotton to this bit of drollery.
Andrea, better known by his professional name, Palladio, was not only one of the most famous architects of all time, but a proud citizen of the Republic of Venice.
Shortly after this, Palladio invited Pingelig to the unveiling of a grand colonnade of his design, hinting that a nice bit of chintz might be the perfect, neoclassical finishing touch.
But due to a typo in the brochures, the affair turned out to be a cannonade, and Pingelig died in an accidental crossfire.
We draw a curtain over his soon-forgotten life, a loose thread in the tapestry of history, his legacy just blowing in the breeze.
No one really pays any attention to that man behind the curtain.
Peace to thy gentle shade.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
* Ok so technically, the Thirty Years’ War wasn’t endless, but a lot of people said it felt kind of endless, between the wholesale slaughter, burning, looting, and the Baroque music – personally, I can only take so much mechanized pluck, pluck, pluck from a harpsichord and sackbuts get on my nerves after a while. A lot of folks at the time said, you know, the papers always call it “thirty years” but doesn’t it feel more endless than the Hundred Years’ War? Which was kind of on-again-off-again, there were famines and plagues to kind of add variety, at least you got a break once in a while?
They would have laughed at the Seven Years’ War, big deal. And in our gone-to-the-dogs modern times, talking about the 1967 Six-Day War, please, people from the 1600’s would find it pathetic. Although the Anglo-Zanzibar War of 1896 clocked in at under 45 minutes. Some people describe my digressions as endless, come off it, venga ya, they’re no ways as bad as the Thirty Years’ War.
P.S. I did not make up the name Andrea Di Pietro della Gondola, that’s the Palladian architecture guy’s real name. His father wasn’t a gondolier, either, so I don’t get it.
P.P.S. There’s been a lot of confusion over claims that Pingelig claimed to have designed the Louvre.
He never said that. It was already there, for centuries.
And Cardinal Richelieu told him, they already had enough curtains.
Pingelig designed the louvre, or what we in the U.S. would call the louver.
And when the Venetians came up with a better, adjustable version of slanted slats, that’s when the resentment started.
P.P.P.S. from Carole King’s “Tapestry”
Chap. IV “The Perils of the Pavement” Dog Warden Philip Eckel
Chap. III “A Tale of a Forgotten Colony” Harold, of the House of Hamburg
Chap. II “Giving History an Icy Reception” Teddy Roosevelt
Chap. I “Stumping for President” George Washington
The next statue in our history tour, is of the indomitable Captain P. Eckel.
Now largely forgotten — but in the final decades of the 19th century, he was known to every resident of this city, and to kennel clubs around the nation.
A quintessential Victorian reformer, and, I am obliged to point out, a figure attracting considerable controversy.
Had he remained satisfied with his campaign to create a dog park in every neighborhood, he would, to a certainty, be better represented in the annals of American history.
His inaugural Canine Green (1876) was opened with considerable fanfare, and proved an instant success. As reported in the Post:
“Dog fanciers, sportsmen, and courting couples have flocked to the park. The upper crust rubs elbows with the humbler sort, those who must toil to earn their daily crust, and the Social Register’s pureblood hounds mix in perfect cordiality and democracy with their less-distinguished mongrel cousins…”
Based on its popularity, Eckel was appointed the city’s first Dog Warden — considered a rising political star, being groomed to run for mayor.
Eckel believed there were no bad dogs, only dogs hadn’t been properly instructed on the proper locations to relieve themselves. His philosophy was embraced by adherents of the Aesthetic Movement, the Domestic Animal Welfare Reform societies, and all those grounded in the essential Victorian faith in Doing Your Business.
But his single-minded resolve to place his Patented Canine Sanitary Stanchions, on every street corner, without the blessing of the city council, cost him his job, and extinguished his dog park crusade.
Careful study of the Sanitary Stanchions (seen surrounding his statue in the picture above) reveals to the observant, one of the issues with his invention.
Because they so closely resembled hydrants, the fire brigades were constantly attempting to hook hoses to them.
When, as the result of this confusion, the city morgue burned to the ground, with tremendous loss of bodies, if not lives, the city fathers had had enough, and his political opponents unleashed their resentment.
Eckel, who only wanted to provide hygienic relief, was relieved of his position. Hounded from office, and every one of his stanchions was dismantled and destroyed.
But P. Eckel was not someone to roll over for a pack of ward heelers, or sit idle, or take this lying down.
In his self-designed uniform, he continued to stride along the thoroughfares, up the town and down, six days a week, shouting through his speaking trumpet at miscreant curs befouling the footpath, and sometimes their dogs, too, but sadly, without the authority to collar wrong-doers.
Reading through his voluminous papers, laid down in the archives of the Eastminster Kennel Club, he comes across as well-meaning, but somewhat monomaniacal.
It’s sad to see this forgotten figure, in a park that no longer allows dog-walking.
Carved in stone, his features weathered by a century of rain, he stands forgotten, passed like water through our collective memory.
[Second in my Monumental Series “Learning All About History by Looking at Statues”]
As you will recall, however regretfully, we began the series with the Father of Our Country, George Washington.
George was made for statues.
Statuesque since he was a lad.
Strikingly tall, striking a pose in almost countless statues, struck onto coins and then stuck into vending machines, stuck on letters as a stamp, stuck onto dollar bills, and also sometimes stuck on stumps, possibly of cherry trees.
Moving on, here we have a New Yorker, reproduced in numerous statues, and stuffed animals.
Governor, Soldier, President.
In the pictures above and below, “Theodore Roosevelt, Modeled in Butter”.
This was an exhibit at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition of 1904, commonly called the St. Louis World’s Fair.
As I pondered this monument, done in a style called baroque arteriosclerotic, a thought suddenly occurred to me.
And, man, that’s annoying.
How many times, have I told my brain, “Don’t do that!”
A historian’s thinking process should be like a bank robbery – – “Don’t nobody make no sudden moves!”
I hate it when random ideas pop up, like a deranged Whac-A-Mole game, and you just cannot pound them back in their hole with the hammer. So I was dismayed to realize that Teddy’s 1904 butter sculpture for the St. Louis World’s Fair, had somehow brought up a new and timely topic – the removal of statues.
Well, my brain can go off wherever it wants — so long, good riddance, write if you get work — and I’ll go my own way.
But here’s a concept that could help with that debate over taking down monuments.
My plan, the Statue Statute, combines the oleaginous evasiveness of a politician, with the icy reasoning of a historian.
Chill out, dude. It’s simple. In future, we’ll make all our statues out of butter or ice.
Stick ‘em in a refrigerated case — and here’s a key concept – – fans of the statue have to pay the electric bill to keep things cool.
You can donate online, or by feeding change into a meter.
Way more hygienic than having the actual person there, like Disney’s longest-running show,
“What a Sleeping Beauty! Lenin on Ice!” in Red Square.
If we have a burning desire to see Jubilation T. Cornpone memorialized in the park, we have to pay to keep him
— in sparkling ice, granita, or well-marbled butterfat.
The Popsicle Pantheon, The Immortal Icebox of Heroes, La Crème Glacée de la Crème.
Ice, pure and transparent, is obviously the wrong medium for politicians, so we can “laud him, all ye people, in lard.”
If we don’t keep the power on, if we waffle, our hero turns into a pool of melted butter.
When memories and passions cool,
and their snow jobs come to light,
and there’s no frozen slush fund to pay the electric bill,
the Sub-Zero Politicians will just melt away
… dissolve like such stuff as bad dreams are made on.
And most likely, the world will just carry on
…spinning in greased grooves.
And in the end, even when all the lights go off,
and the stuff in our refrigerators has gone very bad, become sentient, and taken over the planet,
the people we actually want to remember, will remain
…frozen in our memories, in the times and forms we most love to recall.
We’ll get back to Teddy, another time, don’t worry, I won’t forget.
I want to achieve two goals with this post.
Inaugurate a new series “Learning History By Looking At Statues, Before They’re All Taken Down”.
I don’t want my kid sister to feel badly about not having a driver’s license.
Dear Sis –
George Washington was a great man.
He fought the French, he fought the English, he fought the Hessians, and he fought the Whiskey Rebellion.
And despite all that, he isn’t seen as a hostile guy, everybody thinks he’s a great guy.
Like many otherwise nice, intelligent people…
He. Could. Not. Parallel. Park.
Look closely at this statue. This happened all the time.
Stuck on a stump.
An unparalleled leader of men, but he just couldn’t parallel park.
“Martha? Can you give me a lift? There’s something the matter with this horse again.”
And did he give up? I do not think so.
What is carved on the base of this statue? A quotation from the Marquis de Lafayette:
“Il est un conducteur terrible. Mais il est toujours un grand homme”
“He is a terrible driver, but still, a great man.”
Washington was a lesson in perseverance, and overcoming all obstacles in your path. Except granite curbs. And light poles. Stray shopping carts, too.
Now, here he’s crossing the Delaware.
Why would you do that in a little boat, standing up, when the river’s full of ice?
Because you cannot get your horse to go around the safety cones, on the bridge to New Jersey.
So you don’t give up, you take the ferry.
You just have to keep trying. And re-taking the driving test. I will give you driving lessons over the holidays.
But not with my car.
Like so many sophisticated adventure-seekers before us, we were driving around Cattaraugus County, admiring the cows.
There’s a whole lot of ’em.
Restaurants, movie theaters, gas stations, people…not so much.
Eventually, a small sign told us we’d arrived in East Otto.
Apparently, we’d passed through West Otto, and Central Otto, without noticing.
Soon after, my cellphone found a signal again, and could pull up a map.
We discovered that we were southeast of Bagdad, Gowanda, and the Zoar Valley.
And due east of Persia.
Strangers in a strange land.
I hadn’t known our state had these outlandish places, in such a pastoral setting, but I liked the idea of eating cheese from such exotic locales.
Bagdad Brie, Persian Pecorino, Gowanda Gorgonzola.
And yes, as you may have guessed, we’d gotten off the interstate, decided to go home cross-country, no GPS, and were a bit lost.
The endless herds of Holsteins were the only familiar faces we’d seen. It’s possible we’d seen some of them more than once, as we zigzagged around.
The roads wandered through pastures, woodlots, little hills. We passed an old guy cutting hay, wearing a wool plaid jacket in August, and as we went around the bend, and up a little hill, we realized there was something strange about our surroundings.
There were no cows to be seen.
No cows whatsoever.
Finding ourselves in a landscape totally vacant of cows made us uneasy.
And then, as we came over the rise, suddenly there were strange metal objects — tall, mysterious, like alien totems, as if we’d entered the territory of some weird cult.
There didn’t seem to be any roadblocks manned by the Children of the Corn, so we kept driving, and found we’d driven into the Griffis Sculpture Park.
A rusted but fantabulous remnant of an ancient but very groovy time, called “The Sixties”.
The wonderful man who created this place was named Larry Griffis, Jr.
He came back to Buffalo after serving in WWII, and started a business making nylon stockings.
During a visit to Italy, he fell in love with sculpture.
I saw a picture of him on the internet, and he reminded me a bit of Van Morrison. His son, and now granddaughter, have kept his workshop in Buffalo going, and the park in East Otto is now hundreds of acres of fields, ponds, and woods, full of sculptures, by Griffis and other artists.
Some are pretty literal creations, like this giraffe, peering into the woods.
Or this giant mosquito.
The woods are full of meandering paths, with abstract creations scattered about.
A pond is surrounded by flying metal geese, and rusted obelisks, which resemble small cellphone towers, as woven from rebar by a cargo cult — some overgrown, some toppled over, and merging into the undergrowth.
A shrine-like creation, marked “Santana,” held an offering of a dozen half-eaten acorns.
Statues and shapes are cast in bronze and aluminum, but most seem to be weathered and rusted iron.
One group resembles chess pieces, another, industrial elements.
We’d arrived quite a distance from the main entrance, where a series of fields and woods harbors some hands-on creations, that you can climb on, and in.
My favorite resembles the conning tower of a submarine, surfacing in a meadow.
My snapshots only show a fraction of the collection. You could easily spend the better part of a day, hiking around and discovering things.
Some of these creations, as the day got close to sundown, seemed a bit spooky, even foreboding.
But the overwhelming vibe of the place is of whimsical creativity and happiness.
So long for now, from atop the conning tower, surfacing somewhere in the Summer of Love.
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