Art Takes to the Hills With ‘Umbrellas’ : Tejon Pass: Christo’s latest project, which will dot the hills along the Golden State Freeway with 1,760 20-foot parasols, is giving local residents a chance to learn about and be part of the creative process.

The people who live amid the hills of the Tejon Pass are getting art lessons in unexpected places lately.

Two locals had just left a coffee shop in Gorman one morning last month when they bumped into Christo, the famous Bulgarian-born artist.

Eager to share an update on his latest project--1,760 umbrellas that will dot the hillsides of the pass--Christo pointed to a bright orange circle that was spray-painted the day before on a parking lot space.

“See where we will place an umbrella,” Christo said.

The pair looked in silence and struggled to respond. One finally blurted out, “It looks like you have everything under control.”

For the past several years, the folks in these parts--whether they want to or not--have learned quite a bit about their frequent guest. They’ve watched movies of Christo’s previous artistic exploits, chatted about art at community get-togethers, received the artist’s slick catalogues by mail and posed for pictures snapped by his German photographer.

By now, there is probably nobody for miles around who doesn’t know about the umbrellas.

In October, the golden-yellow umbrellas will cascade through cow pastures and small towns along 18 miles of the Golden State Freeway in Kern and Los Angeles counties. At the same time, 1,340 royal blue umbrellas will snake through rice fields, a riverbed, a bamboo forest and villages along a 12-mile stretch in rural Japan.

It’s not just their sheer numbers that will turn heads. Each umbrella will stand almost 20 feet tall and will weigh 450 pounds.

It most likely will be the world’s largest and most fleeting art project. About 1,500 people on each side of the Pacific Ocean will help erect the umbrellas in early October. Three weeks later, the work crews, composed primarily of art lovers, college students and the curious, will dismantle them.

All that will remain will be memories and Christo’s pricey umbrella collages, sketches and other preparatory work that museums, investors and art collectors already have been gobbling up. A modest collage costs $35,000. An eight-foot drawing costs $360,000.

Christo, who spends as much time as possible creating umbrella art in his SoHo loft, is paying for “The Umbrellas: A Joint Project for Japan and the U.S.A.” himself. The price, $26 million, is double last year’s estimate.

Even schmoozing is expensive. The diminutive artist with impeccable manners has flown to the West Coast and Japan dozens of times to convince skeptical bureaucrats, farmers and landowners that his dream to “stretch peoples’ notion of art” is not a joke.

He has largely succeeded. He has secured all the necessary approvals, including a critical Japanese permit so detailed it is the size of a big-city phone book. The California Legislature has feted the artist for choosing the state once more as a backdrop for his creativity. And the Kern County Board of Supervisors in Bakersfield is thrilled that for once its county won’t be lost in Los Angeles’ shadow.

Abe Gueler, owner of a heavy-equipment company, is so excited that he plans to widen a steep dirt road with hair-raising curves on his land so it will be easier for Christo’s workers to reach his mountaintop.

A few years ago, Gueler said, “a high percentage didn’t know who Christo was, didn’t have the slightest idea.” Then some locals decided that he “had to be nuts” when they learned that his artistic credentials include wrapping a Parisian bridge with fabric, surrounding Florida islands with pink plastic and running a shimmering, 24-mile fence across Sonoma and Marin counties and into the ocean. But, Gueler added, “Now he’s getting a better response.”

Despite many converts such as Gueler, Christo’s public relations machine is still humming. Tom Golden, Christo’s West Coast director, has invested so much time in Gorman that he can rattle off the family tree of the village’s most prominent extended family.

When Christo’s in town, there is always a hand to shake or a rancher to humor. On his recent visit, Golden drove Christo down a bumpy road to pick up an easement agreement from a landowner. Penelope Greenhaw seemed startled when she saw Christo and his entourage standing on her plywood front porch. Christo’s photographer, Wolfgang Volz, who has already snapped about 20,000 pictures for the project, wanted to take her portrait.

She begged off. “I don’t have any makeup on,” she said. Volz, who was flying back to Dusseldorf the next day, nodded knowingly and promised to make an appointment next time.

Part of Christo’s purpose in visiting the West Coast for 3 1/2 days last month was to drum up paid recruits who will install, protect and answer questions about the umbrellas while they are displayed next fall. The crowds were so large that many had to sit on the floor in Los Angeles and Valencia when Christo showed his umbrella slides and answered questions.

For those who just wanted to know the answer to the question “Why?” Christo’s explanations might not have cleared up the confusion.

“I create gentle disturbance,” Christo said as he stood behind a lectern at a USC theater.

“Why do you create such big, monumental art?” someone shouted.

“My, human beings build much bigger things,” he replied in his thick Bulgarian accent. “They build airports, skyscrapers, highways, bridges, much more monumental.” He said his art “is monumental because it is only irrational and completely irresponsible.”

The audience, which seemed absorbed by their intense guest, cheered.

He lectured at night and hiked during the day. Two years ago, he walked the equivalent of 2 1/2 trips up and down Mt. Everest to mark where he wanted to place each umbrella. Now he wanted to make revisions.

Christo knows the dips and bends and contours of this brutish landscape like a tour bus driver knows Hollywood. He picked a favorite vista to unfurl his maps and talk about his plans. It was a steep hillside covered with tall, dried grasses that sounded like muffled firecrackers when crushed underfoot. Nearby was a wooden surveyor’s stick tied with a pink plastic ribbon flapping in the wind. Umbrella No. 1951 will stand there.

Below, the Golden State Freeway looked like a thin, gray snake. A dying oak tree clung to the crumbling earth, and a trickle of boulders appeared frozen in a free-fall. To the north, the burnished hills formed a distant giant “V,” and beyond lay the pancake-flat expanse of the San Joaquin Valley--tinted blue by clouds.

“Here, the freedom of the umbrellas is so visible,” Christo said in awe. “They are so free. They have no other reason than to be works of art.”

Even here, though, there is no freedom from phone calls. When Christo hiked back up the hill to the car, Golden--whose business card lists nine different phone and fax numbers--was talking with one of Christo’s attorneys in Chicago.

The artist took the phone. “I’m looking at the most beautiful landscape in the world. It’s spectacular! Spectacular!”

The umbrellas are an international effort. The nylon fabric was woven in Germany. Various parts were manufactured in Japan, Iowa, Kansas and Texas. Prototypes were tested in a Canadian wind tunnel. The umbrella tops are being sewn at North Sails Inc. in San Diego, one of the world’s largest sail makers.

The 500-pound bolts of shiny material were so heavy that North Sails officials feared the floors might collapse. Their solution was to knock down several walls and a couple of offices to make a large opening. The bolts stay outside and yards of material are pulled inside as needed.

Later this month, workers from Rain for Rent, an irrigation company, will begin assembling and painting the aluminum and steel umbrellas in a dilapidated warehouse in Bakersfield. Its location is a secret. Company employees not working on the project don’t even know where the warehouse is.

There were only three people working in the warehouse one recent afternoon, but they were making a terrible racket. The sound of drills cutting through aluminum parts bounced off the concrete floor and bowed ceiling. Scattered throughout the building were large bins of castings, fasteners and other umbrella parts. The poles, which look like giant metal straws, were stacked in tall piles.

Mike Grundvig, chief engineer at Rain for Rent, is overseeing this portion of the aesthetic process. A professional more at home with irrigation and sewage tubing, he admits he’s amazed at the resiliency of Christo’s art.

To test its durability, an umbrella was left for three months on a mountaintop in the Tejon Pass. After a wind storm earlier this year, Grundvig was dispatched to pick up the pieces.

“I didn’t expect to see it there,” he acknowledged. “Not in one piece.”

But it was.