Guy Yedwab

Power (Exercise #6)

Ngugi, a Kenyan, discusses public art as the struggle performance of power between the artist

and the state. The situation he describes in Kenya cleanly fits into that dichotomy. Unfortunately,

standing in the middle of the Doris Freedman Plaza on the edge of Central Park, I'm having a little

trouble buying that same line of reasoning.

In the middle of the tiny Doris Freedman Plaza is a work of art named 2001. It is a beautiful,

iridescent cube-sphere sitting modestly across the street from the more elaborate Grand Army Plaza,

whose pride is General Sherman. General Sherman is clearly a performance of power: it was

commissioned at the end of the Civil War to commemorate one of the main victors of the Civil War. It

was he who crushed much of the Southern resistance to the American government. Even the name of

the plaza reflects the power of the government: Grand Army plaza.

So what does the abstract 2001 represent? It certainly does not uphold the order the

government, except possibly by not being interventionalist, as Kwon would put it. In one way, it seems

to affirm the world around it—it is not glaringly incongruous, nor does it contain a biting social

commentary. On the other hand, by its beauty and its modesty, it seems to upstage the display of power

by the government.

In truth, it simply seems to be more relatable than the performance of government power in

Grand Army Plaza. Even to the modern day patriot, General Sherman's March to the Sea is no longer

the prideful event it once was; now that the South is part of America, we can't help but sympathize with

the destruction of their homes, the destruction of Atlanta. On the other hand, 2001 is contemporary, is

attractive (as opposed to the corroding General Sherman). In a way, it seems to point out General

Sherman's flaws subtly, without having to interrupt the lives of the everyday in the way that Kwon

describes Tilted Arc having done. In truth, it is more like the gently subversive sculptures by Tom

Otterness at the 14th St. Subway Station, without being quite as obvious.
 So perhaps, in that gentle nudge of playfulness, the power of the artist is gently asserting itself.

But a look beneath the surface makes the power of the artist appear even more boldly. 2001 is in a

plaza called Doris Freedman Plaza. Doris Freedman is the founders of the Public Art Fund, a New York

non-profit organization which fights for the rights of the artists. In a way, it is a union of New York

artists, representing their rights to public spaces, which Ngugi describes the government as wanting to

control. Has the government been opposed to that? Not exactly—Mayor Michael Bloomberg has been

open and hospitable to the Public Art Fund. As a conservative, he tends to believe that the private sector

(in this case, the artists themselves) don't need government support, but on the other hand, in terms of

public art, he has not put up a fight to their being constructed. In fact, he invited the Public Art Fund to

commission a piece of art in City Hall Park.

On the other hand, the Public Art Fund is falling into gap left by the National Endowment of the

Arts—its government counterpart. Ever since the Reagan administration, the NEA has been cut back

severely, and as Kwon observes, they have been slowly tightening up the sorts of art which are

considered acceptable for funding. The NEA has been notorious for cutting off funding to artists who

use the money for controversial tasks, whether insulting religion or abusing government, or creating

works which are seemingly lacking in merit.

Of course, there certainly is no war between the Public Art Fund and the NEA. It is simply that

the NEA does not sponsor certain artists, but for the most part, the government does not control the

public spaces to the point of excluding. The government seems to be a patron of the arts in New York—

all the money they have poured into revitalizing Broadway is a sure sign of that. Nowhere in the United

States can you see as much art in the public sphere as in New York.

In a way, the vitality of art in public spaces seems to be as much a performance of power as

their own commissioned works. It is a shrewd city which realizes that people will appreciate the city

more if artists are given somewhat of a free reign. While the city does not always give that free reign as

much as the artist would desire, the gap between Michael Bloomberg and the post-colonial government
that Ngugi describes is fairly marked. People come to New York precisely because it has a free enough

culture to spur on creation and public discourse.

The degree to which the government participates shows not only its wealth and power, but also

its care and concern for the arts—which is considered in America to be a very good thing. On the other

hand, the government tends to slide towards saving money, avoiding controversy, and being apathetic

toward the arts—after all, they have better things to do. So rather than posit 2001 as the “power of the

artist” versus the “power of the government” present in General Sherman, it is perhaps better phrased

as the “will of the artist” versus the “will of the government.” And as 2001 so clearly demonstrates, no

one has a greater concern for the impact and beauty of art as the artists themselves.