FOR 16 DAYS IN THE SUMMER OF 2016, at Lake Iseo in Italy, the general public was able to walk for about 3 kilometres (almost two miles) on water (literally!), atop 200,000 floatable cubes covered in bright yellow fabric that connected the shore to a tiny island on the lake. Titled The Floating Piers (2014–16), this public artwork, conceived by the artist duo Christo and the late Jeanne-Claude, became one of the most Instagrammed images of the summer (#FloatingPiers). ‘Like all of our projects, The Floating Piers were absolutely free and open to the public,’ explained Christo. ‘There were no tickets, no openings, no reservations and no owners. The Floating Piers were an extension of the street and belonged to everyone.’
For many, public art still means traditional war memorials and statues of national heroes adorning city squares and parks, and though it continues to serve this commemorative and decorative function, it is safe to say contemporary art has breathed new life into this tradition. Whether it is initiated by a local government who want to activate a public space through art or by the artists themselves, the realization of a public work of art is an arduous and long process that requires a team effort on a truly epic scale. For example, the idea for The Floating Piers was conceived all the way back in 1970, but it took the artists 46 years to make it happen, after attempts in South America and Japan failed. In fact, waiting has become a hallmark of Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s visionary and short-lived artworks, often reflected in the dates of their titles: they waited 24 years to be granted permission by the German government to wrap the entire Reichstag building in Berlin in fabric for Wrapped Reichstag (1971–1995); it took them 26 years of meetings, consultations and public hearings, during which they endured feasibility reports, petitions and angry letters of protest, to get the green light to install The Gates (1979–2005) in New York’s Central Park.
So why go to all the trouble? Indeed, it certainly isn’t all hashtags and ‘likes’. In the case of The Floating Piers, the hassle of maintaining the work meant that it wasn’t welcomed by everyone. Although the installation was paid for by the artists through the sales of their work, the local authorities had to contend with overcrowding, as well as health and safety issues, and had to turn some visitors away. A number of locals even complained about the costs of evacuating stranded tourists and cleaning up after them.
Pursued in the name of the ‘public’, how much is the public actually considered? In other words, what’s in it for the average Joe?
In fact, public art almost always elicits mixed responses. Protests are frequently made decrying the waste of public funds, the ruining of public spaces, or worse, the offending of community values by government authorities. When the American artist Paul McCarthy put up his giant inflatable Tree (2014) in Paris, right-wing protesters condemned the sculpture that resembled a sex-toy as an act of humiliation towards the city. Within ten days, the inflatable work had been deflated by an unknown member of the Parisian public. Scandalous as this may sound, this story strikes at the heart of the real issue with public art: pursued in the name of the ‘public’, how much is the public actually considered? In other words, what’s in it for the average Joe?
The fact is, any art in a public space is not going to be everyone’s cup of tea. But however you might feel about public art, it is guaranteed to generate conversations between local communities and strangers alike, bringing people together through the experience of something extraordinary → see A. Permanent works can foster a prolonged sense of civic pride, as Anish Kapoor’s Cloud Gate (2004) does in Chicago. The mirrored curves of this iconic kidney bean-shaped sculpture are now a staple snap stop for any tourist in the city. As Germano Celant, the curator of The Floating Piers, put it: ‘These projects are a kind of dream, one that everybody can understand and everybody can participate in.’
THE CHANCES OF YOU recognizing Banksy even if he walked right into you on your local high street are next to zero, but we’d bet good money that you’d instantly know one of his stencilled graffiti works on the backstreets of Brick Lane in London. His dark-humoured social commentaries have been featured across walls and under bridges in cities all over the world: two policemen kissing on the side of a pub in Brighton, a street-fighter wielding a Molotov cocktail that is in fact a bouquet of flowers on a wall in Jerusalem, two soldiers looting following the devastating Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans.
The universal appeal of his work is indisputable. The subject matter is often topical, resonating with challenges facing the surrounding community, as well as tapping into broader issues such as police brutality or our tech-obsessed contemporary culture. The immediate legibility of his visual language has meant that his street art (which is in fact illegal, since it is considered a form of vandalism) has proved more popular than many formally commissioned works of public art. On a number of occasions, communities have even fought back against attempts by local authorities to remove Banksy’s so-called vandalism, prompting disputes over the ownership of pieces of walls.
And although he may not be highly regarded within the ‘serious’ art world, he has certainly captured its attention with solo shows at major museums, celebrity collectors and auction sales. Banksy has made great strides in raising the profile of ‘street art’. Indeed, the Banksy phenomenon has raised interesting questions. Who is street art made for? Who protects it and who determines its future? Who owns a work of street art? And, ultimately, who can lay claim to the street?