public art
Mexico’s equivalent of the San Antonio Riverwalk is known as Paseo Santa Lucia in the city of Monterrey, a place replete with fountains, public art, businesses, apartments and beautiful spaces that attract thousands. Watershaper JC Escudero reports it’s a place well worth visiting, and appreciating from both an aesthetic and technical perspective.
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This is a tale of frustration followed by great joy. On my way home from the Atlantic City Pool & Spa Show last month, I paused in Philadelphia to spend three days visiting with two of my daughters. Beyond catching up with them, I had a mission: I wanted to see the remodeled fountain in Franklin Square. It was under construction the last time I visited, and my understanding is that it is now
Among the best things about Philadelphia is its stock of public art - and that's not accidental: For many years, all construction projects in specific neighborhoods reaching certain dollar thresholds have been required to include an accessible work of art within their footprints. Whether it's a sculpture, a mural, a statue celebrating a Founding Father or a waterfeature, the city now boasts more than 1,000 of these art pieces, each one part of an outstanding cultural and historical landscape. One of our recent projects fit within this program: Located just across the way from Independence Hall, it's part of a
Way back in my Pool Spa News editor days - I want to say circa 1990, but I may be off by a year or two - we ran a piece on a waterfeature built by Mike Stachel of Mt. Lake Pool & Patio (Doylestown. Pa.) to meet the needs of the Philadelphia Zoo's relentlessly cute capybaras.
I've forgotten all of the details of the article (which, as a small twist of fate would have it, was written by future WaterShapes editor Eric Herman) other than the relentless cuteness of the creatures for whom the watershape was built, but enough of the memory of the project lingered that I made a point of stopping by the zoo while visiting the city ten or twelve years later to see how the critters were getting on. I also wanted to see whether they were as darned cute in person as they had been in Mike's photographs.
I wasn't prepared in any way for the fact that they were actually too large to be considered cute. They were taller and longer and more girthsome than the photos I'd seen had led me to believe. I couldn't help thinking of them as supersized squirrels with bigger, sharper teeth and voracious appetites to match. The horror . . .
Fortunately, there was much else to see at the zoo. Before I was anywhere near the capybara enclosure, in fact, I strolled up to and past the Impala Fountain and knew I'd come back for a longer look once I'd paid my respects to my rodent friends and Mike Stachel's handiwork.
The Impala Fountain belongs to a class of waterfeatures for which I have something of a weakness - that is, fountains that feature wild animals interacting with water. I love the horses running up the steps at the entrance of Denver's Mile-High Stadium, for example, and I'm truly smitten by the mustangs that race across the stream in williams square irving,
The difference in this case is that the impalas (executed between 1950 and 1963 by Philadelphia sculptor Henry Mitchell, are distinctly abstract - basically skeletonized versions of a dozen of these great and amazing leapers set in an arc above fountain jets, doubtless in flight from one sort of predator or another.
To me, this is an ideal combination of sculpture and water where the kinetic nature of the fountain jets lends a direct sense of movement to the static sculptural elements. It's simply drop-dead gorgeous - and well worth a visit the next time you visit the Philadelphia Zoo to see Mike Stachel's fearsome capybaras.
Every once in a while, a watershape impresses me for reasons not even I quite understand. A case in point is the grand-scale fountain in San Francisco by the Canadian sculptor and performance artist
As a sculptor, I always seek ways to use my work to create positive (and sometimes intellectually challenging) experiences for those who have the opportunity to see what I've done. In my case, most of the time I'm not trying to make direct, narrative or literal statements. Instead, I seek to conjure feelings of fascination that lead to appreciation and enjoyment: You don't necessarily have to understand the forms I create to walk away from them with good feelings. When I have the opportunity to work in public settings (as was the case in the project featured on these pages), I'm stimulated by the idea that large numbers of people will be exposed to my sculpture and that, in many cases, those people will be exposed to what I've done over and over again because they'll be passing by at least twice each day as they go to and from their jobs in adjacent buildings. In this case, I was working next to an office tower in Century City - a famous business and entertainment district near downtown Los Angeles - which meant that thousands would repeatedly be walking right past my work and would come to accept it as part of their daily lives. In that light, I see art set amid architecture as a permanent commitment, as a cultural reference that has the potential to resound for generations. This recognition fills me with a heightened sense of
As a sculptor, I always seek ways to use my work to create positive (and sometimes intellectually challenging) experiences for those who have the opportunity to see what I've done. In my case, most of the time I'm not trying to make direct, narrative or literal statements. Instead, I seek to conjure feelings of fascination that lead to appreciation and enjoyment: You don't necessarily have to understand the forms I create to walk away from them with good feelings. When I have the opportunity to work in public settings (as was the case in the project featured on these pages), I'm stimulated by the idea that large numbers of people will be exposed to my sculpture and that, in many cases, those people will be exposed to what I've done over and over again because they'll be passing by at least twice each day as they go to and from their jobs in adjacent buildings. In this case, I was working next to an office tower in Century City - a famous business and entertainment district near downtown Los Angeles - which meant that thousands would repeatedly be walking right past my work and would come to accept it as part of their daily lives. In that light, I see art set amid architecture as a permanent commitment, as a cultural reference that has the potential to resound for generations. This recognition fills me with a heightened sense of
