PRESENT TENSE:IN MANCHESTER, they've decided to dismantle a 55m tall sculpture, B of the Bang, (below) because of fears that one of its many spikes might end up skewering a member of the public. The city's council is being practical rather than being a Philistine. They might not know much about art, but they know they'd like not to be killed by it.
Not unlike a giant game of KerPlunk, B of the Bang has always been controversial, not least because it came in well over budget, two years late and was considered a threat to public safety even before it was unveiled in 2005. Rather dryly, the head of Manchester city council said, “B of the Bang is a magnificent artistic statement that was just right for modern Manchester. It is regrettable that technical problems have undermined that artistic vision.”
Translated, that means: “We thought B of the Bang was a good idea at the time – but I’ll lose my seat if it turns a passer-by into the K of a Kebab.”
I was thinking about this as I walked down Dublin’s O’Connell Street yesterday and not for the first time found myself wondering just what it is that makes the Spire so thoroughly unlovable. In fact, for a 120m tall sculpture, it is strangely unremarkable. People meet there, lean against it, scribble on it, occasionally gaze up at. But it just doesn’t grab you, make you stop dead in your tracks. It’s hard even to work up any great dislike for it. It is just there. Except when the sky goes dark and the Spire of Light all but disappears.
Why go on about this a full six years after it was put up there? Because things that originally seemed irritating or uninteresting can become integral and iconic, a statement and a source of pride. It happened with the Angel of the North, at Gateshead in the north of England, which was at first mocked by many but quickly proved loved greatly. The London Eye, meanwhile, was supposed to be a temporary thing, but brought such joy that it just had to be kept.
These two successes are the reason why other regions in Britain have followed suit in an attempt to get something almost ludicrously big of their own.
So, Manchester tried the B of the Bang, and this week it was confirmed that a giant sculpture of a horse, by Mark Wallinger, will be put in a field in Kent. In the artist’s illustration it looks just like a giant white horse in a field – not a bronze sculpture of a horse; not an abstract figure of a horse. It borders on comical, to be honest. Like those big lobsters or over-sized mangoes that are scattered surreally across the Australian landscape.
Building supersized art is a risky business, because it means everything is supersized: the attention, the bill, the criticism. It amplifies complaints that the money could be better spent on health, schools, sport, playgrounds, anything else at all. And if a region wants to build something iconic, something that makes a statement, at best that statement will be: “We are confident, forward-thinking, proud, wise.” At worst: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
These behemoths will come to typify an era of cash and cockiness. Sculptures will be smaller for the next few years. The recession has already scuppered plans to double Dublin’s quota of giant sculptures. Last month, the Dublin Docklands Development Authority was given planning permission to construct Antony Gormley’s 46 metre-high sculpture of a steel man along the Liffey. Latticed and transparent, it would have loomed over the south quays, its head pointed downwards. The idea was interesting, but that pose was humble, to the point of being almost ashamed. In retrospect, of course, that may have suited the mood pretty well.
Anyway, it’s not going to happen. At €1.6 million, the DDDA last month decided it was too expensive. A spokesperson said: “The sculpture is an important element of the Docklands Arts Strategy . . . However, given the current economic environment, the Docklands Authority will not be proceeding with this development.”
Translated, that means: “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but right now we can’t afford to make a small figure out of pipe-cleaners, never mind this thing.”
So the Spire will stand alone, bland and as pointless as something so pointy can be. But the fate of B of the Bang reminds us that we’ve scrapped monuments before – namely the Anna Livia/Floozy in the Jacuzzi – so it’s not unthinkable that we could save ourselves the millions it will cost to keep the Spire clean in future years and just take it apart or blow it up or tip it over or anything at all that the whole city would come out to watch.
And if we did decide to get rid of it, then maybe we could replace it with something that reflects the times. Actually, a hole in the ground where several million euro had once been put would fit the bill perfectly. Now, where can we commission a sculpture of a giant axe?
