Diary of a Gold Liner: September
Erin Douglass
September 12, evening — At home, while eating dinner and paging through the Los Angeles Times, I find what I've been waiting for.
An article about the cornfield.
The lush, increasingly bushy field near Chinatown is, yes, an art project. It's official name: Not a Cornfield.
I almost gag on my taco.
Magritte was able to get away with "Ce n'est pas une pipe" because it was fresh and he could paint and, well, he was Magritte.
Folks, it's a cornfield.
I guess the saving grace of this self-conscious titling is that the excavated plot of land has been known for quite some time as "The Cornfield." Theories as to why include the fact that corn seeds used to fall off passing rail cars — and actually took root. So the name is a play on words and history.
I read on.
The artist, Lauren Bon, decided to plant corn to honor the Mexican and Native American individuals who first occupied our fair city. The corn is mostly ornamental, however, thanks to the soil's pollution, so apparently we'll be honoring our forbearers with centerpieces, rather than dinner.
Surrounding neighborhoods sound mixed about the project. Some interviewees agreed that a 32-acre green plot where once there was rubble is a welcome addition. Others poo-pooed the price tag. "A million dollars could've bought a lot of things. Or helped a school," said one local.
But isn't this what we always hear about art — particularly public art? From "My kid could've done that" to "That sculpture cost how much?" the art world is forever under attack for being impractical, wasteful, irrelevant.
But we need art. It offers relief from the concrete and mundane. It wakes us up, causes heads to turn and eyes to widen. It reminds us that there is beauty in — and from — just about everything.
Once the corn is harvested this fall, the irrigation system, lighting and paths will be kept for the site's second act: an honest-to-goodness park.
To be completed in 2010.
Til then, I guess we'll have Not a Park for all the neighborhood Not Children.
September 16, evening — A month or two ago, a co-worker pointed out our 49th-floor, Bank of America tower window and said, "What's that green thing?"
"An art project," I said, peering over the top of my cube. "It's corn."
"Corn? Really?"
Soon a small crowd had gathered. I repeated all that I knew, which wasn't much. Reactions ranged from awe to puzzlement: "That's cool!" "Why corn — or is it maize?"
As "that green thing" grew, it bested Frank Gehry's Concert Hall as the focal point of our view to the north. It also took on the weight of myth.
Tonight, three of us drive over in a caravan, hot bevs in hand, sneakers on feet. Ryan and David have cameras. I have my belly, now 5-1/2 months large.
When we arrive, the corn stands before us, green as a shot of wheatgrass. Vibrating in the breeze, it's as incongruous as it is beautiful.
We step onto the dirt path that winds around the site. Four high school boys, soaked t-shirts clamped to their backs, jog by in a dust cloud.
We decide to head to the middle first. As we stroll to the path that bisects the field, my friends start taking pictures of everything. I walk up to a stalk and pet one of the leaves. It's serrated, softly, on three sides. Rectangular holes cover the surface, the crumb-covered-table-equivalent of a pest's recent feast.
We hit the center path. The wall of corn to our left, a good six and a half-feet high, muffles all sound. To our right, the corn is shorter, but still impressive. Our world has become vegetable. I feel insect-like and small.
Suddenly a path cuts off to the right. On a rise, we spot a white concrete fire pit. Beside it, in a nod to the arable land arts, winds a carefully trimmed spiral of cornrows, its stalks only knee high.
We wander this meditative spot for a bit appreciating the view over the field. A young guy walks up, watering can in hand. "We had a big bonfire last week," he says, pointing to the charred logs in the pit. "We'll have one this Sunday, too."
I think of grilled ears with butter and wish I could stop by.
Once we wind out of the spiral and back to the main path, we turn right and head to the far end of the field. It's an eventful walk. Occasional red stalks of corn interrupt the green. What makes them different? At one point, we step off the path, brush by the itchy stalks and stand between the furrows. "This gives me new appreciation for Cary Grant," I say. "How'd he run through this stuff?"
We pass a few other visitors as we amble along. A young boy with his parents trailing behind. A woman and her dog. I wonder if this is their first cornfield stroll.
"Why can't we smell anything?" one of us asks. "Yeah, you'd think it would be more…something. But it just smells clean."
We finally reach the far end of the field. There's a trailer set up with two hipsters standing outside holding drinks.
Drinks? Happy hour in the cornfield? Suddenly I'm back in LA.
As we approach the trailer, we spot a sign. "Artist talk tonight," it says. "Agri(c)ulture: What's Growing in LA?" Apparently, Ms. Bon herself is going to be on hand to discuss urban gardening in the City of Angels. Or something like that.
We check out two ancient-looking tractors parked in the dirt. We find a row of potted pomegranate trees, their hanging fruit like Christmas baubles. And, as we wander back to the path, we spot a sign that says, "Smile! You're on corncam!"
Yes, atop a telephone pole, sits a Web cam, recording every thrilling moment of the corn's growth. I vow to check out the website when I get home.
The walk back is quiet and breezy. When we reach the perimeter trail again, we find ourselves staring at a swatch of picnic-perfect grass. Individual baby corn stalks, none more than a foot tall, sprout here and there among the blades. I read about these wind-blown offshoots. The workers call them the rebel corn.
That's when the magic of the place hits me. Here, in the midst of an urban, industrial no-place, grows REBEL CORN.
Back at our cars, while we kick dust off our shoes, a state park ranger walks up to us. "Hi there," he says. His badge reads "S. Levin."
"So, can I ask what made you visit us this evening?"
"We can see it from our building," says one of the guys.
"And I go by the field every day on the Gold Line," I add. "So we had to get up close."
The ranger nods. "And…what did you feel as you were walking around?"
We look at each other.
"I like to ask people that question," he says. "Lots of people come and say things like 'It's beautiful' and 'It's peaceful.' But, how does it make you feel? Like when you look at a painting at a museum and it makes you feel something…doesn't this cornfield do the same thing?"
I watch a train zip along the far tracks. The field makes me feel hopeful. And excited. What could be lying in wait for other abandoned Los Angeles lots?
After a pause, Ryan says, "Yeah. I'm from the Midwest and it definitely reminds me of home, the fields south of Minneapolis."
The ranger likes this.
"I'm also from the Midwest, from Kansas," says Ranger Levin. "So when I'm here, I feel nostalgic. A little homesick. A little bittersweet, too, about what I have and haven't done in my life." He smiles and looks over our heads at the industrial buildings beyond.
"But it's mostly a good thing," he says and then, perking up, "Thanks so much for talking with me." Then he turns and heads toward the waving green stalks.