Guy Yedwab

Writing the Essay

2001

When I came out of the subway on E 60th and 5th, just at the southeast corner of Central Park, I

expected to see Liz Larner's sculpture 2001 in the middle of the plaza that was marked on the map. It

was not. The statue waiting for me was an opulent golden life cast of General Tecumseh Sherman on

his steed. The golden gild had started to fade and, in areas, had completely worn away to show the

rusty-colored metal beneath. Just to his left, a broad-winged angel carrying a bundle of wheat and

pointing out the path. Together they looked like a somewhat brighter version of the many military

memorials of the 1800s whether in the United States, commemorating the Civil War, or in Europe,

commemorating Napoleon and his armies. Sherman and his angel stood on a dais of tan stone, cut into

a tall regal oval with gold-embossed lettering describing General Tecumseh Sherman's honor for the

crowd. Around the dais was a stately little cobblestone courtyard, and behind the statue was a half-arc

line of large trees. It's winter now, and all the leaves are gone, leaving them looking like skeletons of

trees. It is as though Sherman was leading his angel in front of an arc of trees, and the moment of the

past was frozen in bronze cast, as a dead memorial to a living past. Ngugi, standing in this plaza, would

be confirmed in his belief that “the state performs power” (Ngugi 12). Surely the gold gilding, the term

“Grand Army,” the angel guiding the general's path, the taming of even nature to fit the path, and the

sheer size of the edifice is a performance of the state's power.

But I did not go to that plaza to find the statue of Sherman. I came to see the piece which, if you

faced General Sherman dead on, was completely obscured from vision. Stepping off to the right, 2001

suddenly became visible. Directly in line between the ass of Sherman's horse and the beginning of the

trail into Central Park, a small beautiful-yet-modest iridescent shape is visible. A popular game of

nowadays is Katamari Damacy, a game where a small ball is rolled over objects, which stick to the

ball. The point of the game is to create a ball of a certain size consisting almost exclusively of random

assorted objects stuck to the ball. If you reduced all of the objects on the ball to their simplest shapes,
and then imposed some sort of order onto that chaos in the form of corners and curves, you might have

2001. Supposedly, the only shapes it employs are cubes and spheres, but if you look at the reflective

surface (and ignore the faceless distorted image of yourself), you can see the hexagonal tiling which the

ball sits on. It is designed to reflect, not just to exist. The color of the piece is hard to get a handle on

(especially if, like me, you're colorblind); it sparkles either blue or green depending on the angle of the

light or the time of day. Today, a gray winter day, the shape is somewhere in between. Unlike Sherman,

there is no dais, there is no placement. The sidewalk it is sitting on was designed long before it was

installed; the only acknowledgment of its existence is that it is ringed with thin, discrete white barriers

to stop someone from say, walking up to it and rolling it away—which is something which seems

distinctly possible. The interactions of spheres and cubes give it an awkwardly smooth surface that

seems calming, and drags your attention.

Ngugi says that the area of art “acquire[s its] real power only in relationship to the audience”

(Ngugi 12). Who is the audience who pass 2001? Clearly, it is not a deliberate audience: 2001 is not

marked on the map, and it is only listed as a temporary exhibit by the parks service. By the time that

word of mouth were to spread about it, it would likely be gone. Who passes by that area of the park?

Partly, that part of the park is there for its draw of tourists. The Plaza Hotel is a landmark of the past,

and Central Park is a very popular place to go. But for residents of New York, Central Park is also a

popular spot. The stores which line the plaza draw many residents—it's the end of Fifth Avenue, which

for tourists and residents alike is a good place to blow some money. As for Central Park, the corner

which 2001 faces is the corner which contains the Central Park Zoo; children come by all the time, on

their way to see the animals in the zoo depicted in Madagascar and its cheap knockoffs. At the same

time, couples and nostalgics come by to ride the horse-drawn carriages which center around the plaza

to start and end their tours.

In short, a cross-section of New York culture comes by 2001, and all of them are looking for

something else. But despite its seeming modesty, it is placed in such a way as to slowly draw your eye.

Once your eyes are weary of the Plaza Hotel, ugly now thanks to the scaffolding for its new remodeling
and the advertisements plastered on the sides, or General Sherman's faded golden glory, or the Apple

Store and Bergdorf Goodman, or the Greco-Roman Pulitzer “Fountain” (which has never, in my

memory, had water in it), or the horses and carriages; once you are done looking at everything you

came to see, you'll look at 2001. And 2001 will not tell you what to think about it, but rather let you

think about it what you will. It is a piece of art “from where [you] can be elsewhere,” (Aciman 5).