Big Orange

[kelly_chambliss]

At the moment, in addition to typing, I'm doing one of my favorite things:  eating ice cream straight out of the carton (well, I'm using a spoon.)  I love the feeling of there being no end to the serving unless I want it to end.  The ice cream is a nicely cookie-laden Cookies-n-Cream.

Yesterday, they began dismantling The Gates, the orange-curtain artwork in Central Park.  I went to see it last week with my partner and son (age 8).  I don't quite know what I was expecting.  On the one hand, I'm usually a bit cynical or skeptical about widely-hyped public displays that are called "Art."  On the other hand, The Gates seemed like a cool idea:  7500 orange curtains on orange poles blowing in the breezes above the heads of passersby on the paths of Central Park.  Besides, it seemed silly to be living just a few subway stops away from something like this and not see it.

So we bundled up (it was only 22 degrees F) and sallied forth.  We could see the first Gates as soon as we got off the subway, at the Columbus Circle entrance to the park.  They loomed up at the park edge and than fanned off, row upon row of them lining the paths.  It was a gray, gloomy day, and the orange stood out brightly, beckoning us forward.  (Cristo and Jeanne-Claude, the artists, called The Gates "saffron" and said the color was inspired by Buddhist monks' robes.  I think they must have had a different kind of "saffron" in their Crayola box than I did, because The Gates aren't even close to what I'd call saffron.  They were ORANGE, and that's all there is to it.  Bright orange, University of Tennessee orange, city-worker-truck orange.)

I ended up really enjoying the whole spectacle.  In part, it was the huge scope of the project that made it so fun -- there was something about the sight of dozens and dozens of curtains spreading out in all directions that made you want to walk under each and every one.  (We didn't, of course; altogether, The Gates covered 23 miles.)  But we went over bridges and under bridges and climbed rocks and took pictures at the junction of three paths, so that you could see curtains in every direction.  There were a lot of spectators about despite the cold, and a festive atmosphere prevailed.  People helped each other up the rather slick rocks and offered to take group photos, etc.

After about half an hour, we were frozen and ready for some soup/hot chocolate at a nearby cafe.  Once we'd finished, our son and I wanted another go at park, but my partner said she'd had enough.  So she stayed behind at Borders while we went out again.

While we were eating, it had begun to snow -- that exciting kind of snow, big, white, puffy flakes that swirl around and coat your clothes in no time.  The Gates looked great in the snow, which built up fast.  It even clung to the folds of the curtains; if you were under a gate when the wind blew, the pile-up would dump on you in a white shower.   There were still a lot of people around, although we heard one man say to his companions, "Let's go back.  Trust me -- the rest of them look exactly like this one."  His friend said, "Two blocks, pal.  We're giving it at least two blocks.  Then we can find a bar."

I ended up liking the whole thing a lot; there was none of the pretension that often accompanies Art-with-a-capital-A.  It was such a goofy, off-beat idea -- putting up thousands of orange curtains in a park more or less for the hell of it.  You couldn't help but be pleased by the sheer audacity of it.  Of course, some people found it more deeply meaningful than I did; on an email list I belong to, one woman said that she found The Gates "tremendously healing."  I'm such a Philistine; I never know what people mean when they say things like that, unless they've just finished a dose of antibiotics or something.  So I didn't find The Gates "healing"; I found them a laid-back good time, like an unexpected afternoon at a free amusement park.