Late Edition
By Brad Jones
I recently spent a week in New York City on a volunteer construction crew to help erect "The Gates," artist-provocateurs Christo and Jeanne-Claude's enormous Central Park art piece. We were greeted by the couple at their huge warehouse/workshop in Queens. Jeanne-Claude wasted no time in explaining the meaning of "The Gates." "Nothing! It means nothing!," she exclaimed. "It is simply art, something to look upon. And something to argue about, too, as I came to find out.
There were some 600 of us, half New Yorkers and half from elsewhere, brought together for different reasons and with different expectations. My own preconception was that it was about art on a massive scale. In the end I decided that it was about people on a massive scale. Not just the eight people on my crew or the 600-odd volunteers busily working in all corners of the immense park, but also the New Yorkers who poured into the park daily to bombard us with questions, praise, grumbling and, on one lucky morning, home-baked muffins. Most were curious and enthusiastic, as we explained how, by week's end, saffron-colored curtains would be unfurled from these 7,500 16-foot "gates" we were erecting.
By day two we noticed a pattern. The naysayers—who accounted for maybe one out of every 20 comments—were always the first in the park each morning, there promptly at 7:30 to walk their purebreds and mutter their disapproval. By 9:30 a.m., these scowling old Eastsiders were finished with their morning constitutionals and were replaced by waves of young stroller-pushers, dog-walkers, joggers, photographers and skateboarders, who almost unanimously showered us with thumbs-ups, smiles and a lot of "this is so cool!" The people had spoken.
That didn't deter one old morning grumbler, whose ornery daily visit to our section soon became the centerpiece of our morning. The first morning, she let loose with a withering broadside: "WE DON'T WANT YOU PEOPLE HERE. GO AWAY NOW. WE LIKED THE PARK JUST THE WAY IT IS. THIS ISN'T ART, THIS IS SACRILEGE, THAT'S WHAT IT IS. GO AWAY!"
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The next morning, at the appointed hour, here she came again, with the same upper-case lead-off: "WE DON'T WANT YOU PEOPLE HERE. YOU SHOULD JUST LEAVE NOW!" By the third day, it didn't sting so bad, and we just had to laugh. Behind her big sunglasses, we thought we detected the beginnings of a laugh from her, too.
On day four we awoke to icy pathways. Much to my surprise, when our morning grumbler showed up in our section, she took my arm and allowed me to walk her down a particularly slick incline. Complaining all the way, of course, but now in a milder, almost sweet tone of voice. Might this signal a thawing of relations, a little detente?
No such luck. The next morning was sunny and fine, and she was back again with her same song of protest. By this time she was openly enjoying her role, and as brazen art-poachers, so were we. Our team was but eight people, and our section was but five acres in a park of thousands. How many of these conversations, arguments, powwows and critique sessions were going on throughout the park at this very minute? Sure, this was art, but more than that, it was the biggest damned conversation piece I've ever seen. And New Yorkers were having the time of their lives, doing what they do best, kibbitzing about it.
Brad Jones, a record producer and musician, lives in Nashville.