I just spent the whole day at the Harvard Graduate School of Design at a symposium—Art in the Life of the City: London Stories. Several curators came from London to share stories of ephemeral art in the city—art that is not intended to be permanent and that often engages the viewer as participant. Many of the talks were densely intellectual—so much information that it was difficult to keep up. It’s clear that England and Europe are far ahead of us here in the United States in terms of this sort of engaged public art. Forty per cent of artists in England no longer think of art as object making. For them it is experience making.

I will write more about this but tonight, after this amazingly inspirational day, I’d like to tell the story of Antony Gormley’s Waste Man who you see here. Gormley went to the depressed English seaside resort of Margate to create an art piece that told the story of the exodus in the Bible. It is the story of how we leave the old behind and he asked the people of Margate, many of whom are poor, to give to this project by finding some object in their homes that they’d be willing to let go of. Maybe something that, when they let go of it, they could also let go of the pain associated with it. He obtained a space in an old abandoned amusement park and created the skeleton of a man with steel beams, eighty feet high with one arm raised like the Statue of Liberty. With the use of cranes they attached the detritus of this community of people to the frame to create the statue of a man made from junk. There was a piano, desks, chairs and who knows what.

One young woman clutched a small paper shopping bag. There were tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what it is,’ she said, ‘but I must let it go. It is time to let it go.’ She went up in the crane and deposited her package in the very heart of the man.

When he was complete, the whole town of Margate gathered around one night and they set him on fire. He burned all night until there was nothing but rubble left. Everyone huddled around and watched.

‘No one ever comes to Margate,’ said one spectator. ‘This is something special.’

I confess I’ve not thought much of art in these heart-based, political, public, ephemeral, huge-scale terms but now that I’ve experienced Waste Man and other similar works I feel both humbled and changed. There is work to do on this planet and artists can not just bring awareness to social problems they can actually change people. If you can rent the film, please do. The people of Margate have let go of something—an old way of viewing themselves. One burning night and working on this man together changed them. No one will forget this experience.I am not such an artist but I will consider now how I might be more engaged with the world in whatever it is I now do.

Because I designed the poster for this event I was invited to dinner in Harvard Square with the presenters. There was the chief curator of the Tate Modern, my favorite museum, the head of The Royal Society of the Arts, the director of the Serpentine Gallery in London, the producer of The Sultan’s Elephant and more. And they were all women, all a little younger than I am, but not by much. They are immensely accomplished women and I have to bow down to them for the courage and determination they have but I declined dinner. I knew I did not have anything to offer them, not in a group setting.

So I walked from the GSD through Harvard Yard to the bus. There were cops everywhere and a bandstand set up in the yard. It was a beautiful sunny day, (the first day of summer—spring is already over!) and I had to walk a little out of my way because the cops were closing down the yard for this event. I asked a student what was going on but he didn’t know. I stopped in at The Coop, the Harvard-owned bookstore and spent a pleasant half hour browsing around. When I exited, by the back door, I saw three men dressed identically in blue blazers with little buttons in their lapels. A mild curiosity but I paid no attention—I was much too full of inspiration from the day. I passed a man on my way out the door, turned left and was told by a rather burly dude that I must go to the right. I could see a couple of black limos down by Mt. Auburn Street on the left. ‘Why’s that?’ I said. ‘The prime Minister of Britain is visiting,’ he said. ‘You’re joking!’ I really couldn’t believe this just having spent the whole day with the culture honchos of Britain and having just declined dinner with them. The man laughed. ‘You just walked right by him!’ Funny. Not only could I have had dinner with these incredible women but I might have met the Prime Minister or at least said hi, if I’d had my eyes open. Well, there you go. Time to open the eyes!
Anyway, I hopped on the Number 71 bus and came back to home sweet home. But something changed for me today. At the symposium we all caught a glimpse of possibilities and who knows where any of us will go from here. This is not about ambition but inspiration and another door opened. So I say thank you to these incredibly intelligent and brave women who have really devoted their lives to art as curators and producers. Magic has happened.