By Amy Sparks
offense. Failure to comply
with the notice of violation
is a misdemeanor of the 3rd
degree which carries a fine
of $500.00 and/or 60 days
imprisonment.
Didy Wah Didy by artist Billie Lawless.
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-letter dated 8/3/88 to Billie Lawless from City of Columbus attorney. Controversy seems to dog Billie Lawless, often rearing its head in the form of censorship. Lawless is notorious in Buffalo, New York; charged with being a criminal in Columbus and is increasingly the topic of arguments in Spearfish, South Dakota. What is his crime? He's an artist, making art that some people don't like or understand. So how does a nice sensitive guy become the center of controversy? Because Lawless dwells in that increasingly precarious world of public art, where contracts are not always binding, where city governments are used to thwart artist's efforts, where people choosing the art may not care about the public that is going to live with it every day, where the public may not at all like the art. Now a Clevelander, Lawless caught our attention almost a year ago when SPACES Gallery brought him here in conjunction with its UNCENSORED exhibit-a show of prev- iously censored works in the region. He was here to document and dis- cuss his extensive legal, ethical, and aesthetic problems with the City of Buffalo which tried to dismantle his sculp- ture, an action out of any artist's worst night- mare. By 1984 Lawless had raised $80,000 to build a neon and steel sculpture between two highways owned by the City of Buffalo. He had to present designs and models for the piece and make per- sonal appearances to re_ ceive the endorsement from the city. Fifteen min- utes after the dedication ceremony, the city pulled the plug on the neon, proclaiming Lawless to be a pornographer, and threatened him with arrest. They underestimated the artist, however. Five days later the City began to destroy the sculpture and would have succeeded if the New York State Supreme Court hadn't step- ped in and slapped a re- straining order on the city. The dramatic videotape of Lawless perch- ed atop his sculpture, as if defending it with his own body, was a scene not soon forgotten. It seems that people objected to some curious neon figures shaped like cartoons of genitals. The upshot of this, the first chapter in Lawless' story, is that he sued the City of Buffalo for the right to exhibit the sculpture, and won. It has been stand- ing in Chicago for the last three years, erected as part of that City's Sculpture Chicago ‘85 exhibit. In an eerily similar occurrence, another of Lawless' sculptures is attracting trouble in Columbus. As one of thirty- one sculptures included in the annual outdoor exhibit Sculpture at Heritage Village, Lawless's joins a rather lively group of earthworks, installations and traditional |
sculpture, organized and curated for the last three years by Marty and Pauli Greenberg, respected curators and winners of a recent Governor's Award. Three other area artists-Paul O'Keeffe, Brinsley Tyrrell and Michael Costello-also have work included. But what's the problem? A blackly humorous piece called Didy Wah Didy in honor of, as Lawless describes it, "the last stop on a mythical railroad bound for hell." If you were driving west on I-70 this summer you were bound to see it: a sequenced neon sculpture shaped like a billboard containing these words: "ATOMIC PLAYGROUND AHEAD" and "KIDS! RIDE THE BIG ONE!!" in brilliant reds, pinks and blues. It's a parody of a sign, a piercing send-up of American culture and ideals, mimicking the many road-side attractions that litter American roads. "Tens of thousands of people can see it from the highway," says Lawless, which is exactly why the City of Columbus reacted. It seems that Lawless and/or Heritage Village didn't get the proper permit to display aq sign so close to the highway. "But," as Lawless is quick to remind everyone, "it's not a sign. It's a sculpture in a sculpture garden." "We asked the city if a permit was needed for a neon sculpture installation," says Greenburg. "They said no." But apparently someone complained to the city and :"they were obliged to cite us." Lawless and Greenburg disagree on the source of the complaint, and the magnitude of the problem. Lawless is convinced it's the content of the sculpture that has people rattled, while Greenburg feels it is only a zoning dispute." "Seeing as the exhibition was officially over September 15th, we don't feel the need to talk about it anymore, " claims Greenburg. "It's over." Not so, according to Lawless, "I was led to believe the sculptures would stay up throughout the winter, " he says. Their disagreement, however, is not as important as the misdemeanor charge leveled at Lawless, a letter Greenburg knew nothing about. "It's used politically," says Mary Kilroy, a Columbus attorney who has represented others cited under this code. "The city uses it to prohibit peace and anti-nuclear demonstrations. However, the graphics code isn't used against club owners, anti-abortionists or mainstream politicians. Lawless' predicament is understood by other recent events in Columbus. As one Columbus artist who wished to remain anonymous said recently, "It hasn't been a great summer for public art." In a surprisingly transparent move Columbus Mayor Dana G. Rinehart has |
graciously offered "to give away" the Roy Lichenstein sculpture Brushstrokes to Flight to Columbus' sister city, Genoa, Italy. Installed in 1982 at the Columbus International Airport, the sculpture has been reviled by natives and media alike. Rinehart suddenly feels the need to honor the thirty-three year old gift of a statute of Christopher Columbus from Genoa. Lichenstein, as reported in New Art Examiner, said, "You can't really wait for a consensus about what's right or wrong with art." But, he also claims he would like the sculpture to be placed "where it will be wanted most." In another incident that went almost unnoticed, a sculpture by well-known artist Athena Tacha, a professor at Oberlin College, was broken up and tossed aside during construction at the airport. Add to this Lawless' newest woe and it's not difficult to raise questions about public art in general and Columbus in particular. If it's not the content of Didy Wah Didy (which includes a boy's skeleton and a skull-and-crossbones) which has caused the complaints then what are we to think about Columbus? That its zoning inspectors drive around looking for violations masquerading as sculpture? That not much happens in the Celestial city so a lot of attention can be paid to signs too close to the road? Or is it just that Columbus doesn't like parody? Or traffic hazards? Or tip-offs that something may be quite wrong with the world? According to the same Columbus artist (above): "I suspect the content of the sculpture is at the root of the problem." Greenburg admitted that he's gotten some complaints about the content of the sculpture. But, "we're trying to play it low key here," he says. "The arts community enjoys a nice relationship with the city's zoning committee. If we create a furor over this, it will kill future temporary shows like this.: In Greenburg's opinion, Lawless is either "a super- sensitive artist or he is looking for trouble." I'm tired of fighting and getting attorneys," sighs Lawless. "When I talked to the building inspector who cited me, he led me to believe someone complained about the subject matter. I was also told I was going to have to prove it was a sculpture, not a sign. I've been a sculptor for fifteen years, what else do they need to know!" While Lawless waits for the city's next move, another problem is brewing in tiny Spearfish, South Dakota, population less than 6,000 people. In a nationally advertised public art competition funded by the National Endowment for the Arts, a three person panel chose Lawless's sculpture out of a couple hundred entries. In an increasingly used format, one "regular" citizen joined two art professional on the jurying panel. Due to vociferous public outcry across the country about public art-the |
most famous being Richard Serra's Tilted Arc in New York City where people are tired of walking around the huge lead sculpture and want it removed-citizens are being asked for their opinions early on in the choosing process, in or- der to offset public dismay after the sculpture is erected. Even with this precaution, Lawless's ten year old ab- stract steel fish, Hungry Fish is not what the town wants. "After they sent me a letter saying I'd won the competition, they had a town meeting where the design was unveiled," ex- plains Lawless. The 18-feet tall piece does not contain possible genital images or political messages and, according to Lawless, is one of his most conservative pieces. "But," he says, "they want to know why it doesn't look like a real fish, because that is what they really want. The officials also want to know if their letter of acceptance is considered a contract." Herein lies one of the central of many issues circumscribing public art. Does the public like it? How much say should the public have in choosing the work? Who ultimately de- cides-the people who fund it, the artist, the public or a combination of all three? "Then it becomes art by committee which is not art at all," claims Lawless. "Did Picasso need community input?" Artists like Lawless believe art is not just entertainment or lovely things that blend into the woodwork, or the street. Art should challenge, edu- cate, provoke the audience. More and more, however, public art is reeling under its responsibilities to the public. Should public art merely serve as grace notes for the architect's design, if place next to a building, for instance? Or should it be a way to "decorate" the landscape? Should it be the only way artists get involved in city development? Should it be just what the people want-artists, architects and professors be damned-like in Spearfish? Cleveland got a taste of the furor surrounding public sculpture, only in this case the public never even got to see it before being condemned. Claes Oldenburg's Free Stamp has passed into urban legend, but by continuing to talk about it, we can raise pertinent issues. How permanent should public sculpture be? Despite contracts and heavy investments, the Lichensteins may be "given away," the Oldenburg's half done and never erected, the Lawlesses unplugged, the Serra's torn down. Are artists continually in for a rude awakening when art ventures out of studios, collector's homes, galleries and museums only to be scrutinized by people for whom art is, if not meaningless, sometimes just an obstacle on the square? It appears so. Ask Billie Lawless. |