What Should Public Art Be?

 What Should Public Art Be?

Part 6 — The Final Chapter of the Vancouver Biennale Investigation

Six posts.

A lot of questions.

A lot of documents.

A lot of digging.

And I started this investigation because one electronic sign on a bicycle route genuinely upset me.

I wanted to know:

Who chose this?

Who approved it?

Who paid for it?

And did anybody think about the people who would encounter it?

After following the money, the people, the approval process, the artworks and the public consultation, I've come to a conclusion.

I don't want less public art.

I want better public art.

I want art that remembers where it is.

A gallery is not a seawall.

A museum is not a bike path.

A private exhibition is not a public playground.

When an artwork is placed in a shared public space, the location becomes part of the artwork.

And so does the audience.

You don't get to choose who walks past.

You don't get to choose who is having a wonderful day.

You don't get to choose who is grieving.

You don't get to choose who is recovering from addiction.

You don't get to choose who has just lost someone.

You don't get to choose who is a child or teenager encountering the work.

That's what makes public art different.

I discovered that I actually love some Biennale art.

The clearest example for me is Giants at Granville Island.

Those enormous colourful figures transformed concrete silos into something imaginative and joyful.

You don't have to understand contemporary-art theory to appreciate them.

You can simply see them and smile.

That's what I want more of.

Art that makes us stop.

Art that makes us curious.

Art that makes us laugh.

Art that makes us see our city differently.

Art that makes an ugly place beautiful.

Art that makes a child look up and say:

“Wow.”

But I've also encountered works that I find disturbing.

A-maze-ing Laughter makes me uncomfortable.

The Proud Youth frightened me.

And Vancouver Novel has genuinely upset me.

The electronic sign cycles through statements including:

“He hides pills.”

“She is begging again.”

“They can see you.”

The Biennale describes the work as deliberately moving between ordinary and ominous statements.

Perhaps that is exactly what the artist intended.

But here's what I have learned:

Intent isn't the same thing as impact.

An artist can intend humour and someone can experience fear.

An artist can intend provocation and someone can experience distress.

An artist can intend social commentary and someone can experience a painful reminder of something that happened in their own life.

That doesn't automatically make the artwork wrong.

But it does mean the response is real.

And that brings me back to the word PUBLIC.

We use that word so casually.

Public art.

Public park.

Public space.

Public consultation.

Public money.

But public means people.

Real people.

Messy people.

Happy people.

Angry people.

People who disagree.

People who don't know anything about contemporary art.

People who know far more about it than I ever will.

People with trauma.

People without homes.

People with money.

People without money.

People who love the artwork.

People who hate it.

All of them are the public.

So what should public art be?

I don't think there should be one answer.

And I don't want governments deciding that art must always be cheerful.

That would be dangerous.

Artists need room to challenge us.

Sometimes we need art that makes us uncomfortable.

Sometimes we need art that forces us to confront something we'd rather ignore.

Sometimes we need art that makes us angry.

Sometimes we need art that makes us ask uncomfortable questions.

But we also need beauty.

We need joy.

We need colour.

We need wonder.

We need places where a person can ride a bicycle and simply feel good for a few minutes.

Why can't public art sometimes say:

YOU LOOK AWESOME.

YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.

HAVE A GREAT DAY.

KEEP GOING.

Imagine that.

And I don't think the answer is censorship.

That's not what this investigation found.

What I found was something more complicated.

There is a real organizational structure.

There are curators.

There is a Board.

There are government and municipal relationships.

There are funding sources.

There are agreements.

There are approval processes.

There have been public consultations.

There have been controversies.

There have been artworks that stayed.

There have been artworks that left.

And there are documents showing how some of these decisions happened.

That's actually good news.

Because it means we don't have to rely on rumours.

We can ask questions.

We can look at the records.

We can disagree.

We can participate.

And we can ask the organizations responsible for public art to explain themselves.

My biggest question remains unanswered.

When an organization says it is bringing art into the places where people “live, work, play and transit,” what responsibility does that create?

I think it creates a big one.

Because you have deliberately removed the gallery door.

You have removed the choice to enter.

You've made the artwork part of someone's everyday environment.

So perhaps the responsibility of public art isn't simply:

“Can we put this here?”

Perhaps it should also be:

“What will it feel like to encounter this here?”

And:

“Who might we be forgetting?”

Those are questions worth asking before the sculpture arrives — not only after people complain.

So, Vancouver Biennale, here's my challenge.

Don't be afraid of criticism.

Don't dismiss people who don't understand contemporary art.

Don't assume that someone who dislikes a work simply “doesn't get it.”

Listen.

Explain.

Show us the process.

Tell us who selected it.

Tell us who approved it.

Tell us who funded it.

Tell us what consultation happened.

And when people object, explain why you decided to proceed.

Maybe we'll still disagree.

That's okay.

That's democracy.

And to artists:

Keep making art.

Please.

Make the strange stuff.

Make the beautiful stuff.

Make the uncomfortable stuff.

Make the art that makes us stop in our tracks.

But when your work enters public space, remember something:

Your audience didn't necessarily choose you.

And that doesn't mean you have to make everyone happy.

It means you have to understand that the public experience is now part of the work.

And to the public:

Don't assume that public art is something that simply happens to us.

Look.

Question.

Discuss.

Love it.

Hate it.

Take photographs.

Find out who made it.

Find out who paid for it.

Find out who approved it.

And if you think something belongs somewhere else, say so.

Public space belongs to all of us.

So should the conversation about what happens there.

WHO CHOOSES OUR PUBLIC ART?

After six investigations, I think that's still the best question.

Not:

“Is it good art?”

But:

“Is it good public art — for this place, for this audience, and for this city?”

And maybe that's where the conversation should begin.

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