As transitory as its makers

For 16 short days in the dead of winter, Central Park has been set ablaze by fluttering saffron ribbons twisting and folding along 23 miles of paths and walkways. Everything about Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s “The Gates” is excessive: the cost, estimated at more than $20 million; 7,500 gates, each 16 feet tall; 60 miles of saffron-colored tubes; 15,000 steel footings weighing 615 to 837 pounds each; 1,067,330 square feet of fabric; 116,389 miles of nylon thread; the installation crew of eight teams of 600 workers. The carefully orchestrated media coverage has been as excessive as the work of art. City and artists have conspired to create a spectacle that has drawn more than a million tourists at a time of year when hotels usually are empty.

This excess, however, is not only too much, it is also too little. The time for people to enjoy this remarkable work of art is excessively brief. A work that has been almost three decades in the making will be on display for only days. So much to take in, so little time to do it. Why is time so short? And why 16 days? Cynics insist that the strategy is calculated to create a sense of urgency that will promote hype and ensure large crowds from around the world: must see it, now or never. But to view the brevity of this work of art as a marketing ploy misses the artists’ most important lesson. “The Gates” is about time or, more precisely, our lack of it.

Timely art

Throughout much of the Western tradition, works of art have been designed to create pristine forms and permanent images that lift us above the corrosive flow of time. Such idealized works are protected in sanctuaries where, like the religious icons of earlier generations, they are set apart from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Like many other artists of their generation, Christo and Jeanne-Claude immerse us in the inescapable flux of time by drawing us into a work that is timely in every sense of the word. Fulfilling the avant-garde’s dream of transforming the world into a work of art, they take art from the studio and gallery into the heart or, perhaps more accurately, the lungs of the city to give the work, and those drawn into it, time and space to breathe. “The Gates” cannot be captured in an instant; it takes time -- lots of time -- to wander through this work of art. Nor can it be appreciated in a single visit; one must return repeatedly and linger idly. If you rush, you miss not only what is but also what is not there to see. The flimsy ribbons are like a film that winds and rewinds but never ends. And yet this work is momentary and will not last. Indeed, what is most impressive is its impermanence.

In the weeks leading up to the Feb. 12 opening, critics and commentators were obsessed with the extraordinary effort required to construct the work. From factories and workshops in the U.S. and abroad to armies of paid workers, Christo and Jeanne-Claude created a community of co-workers who themselves have become artists. To understand this massive project, it is necessary to expand our understanding of the artist as well as the work of art. “The Gates” is not merely the finished work; rather, it is the entire creative process required to bring it into being -- from artistic conception and political negotiation to craftsmen, workers, souvenir hawkers, even members of the public who pass through it. When the work works, it transforms those who created it and those who enjoy it. Like all art that is not trivial, “The Gates” allows us to see ourselves and the world anew.

While the scale of this production process is undeniably impressive, I am less intrigued by the construction of “The Gates” than by its deconstruction. After only 16 days, the work will be dismantled and never again reassembled. I would like to return in the dead of night tonight, after the lights have been turned off for the last time, the cameras are gone and the crowds have dispersed. I imagine watching the workers in the days ahead take apart what they so carefully created. Will they realize that this labor constitutes the real work of art? The materials will be scattered and recycled. Rather than its undoing, its disappearance will be the moment when “The Gates” becomes what it truly is. How many people will be there to capture this moment? Who will remain to see what is not there?

But why 16 days, and why saffron? Most people who visit the park would describe the color of the gates as orange -- perhaps even Home Depot orange. Yet the artists insist the color is saffron. Relatively rare in the West, saffron is very important in the East. “The Gates” bears an uncanny resemblance to the torii gates of Shinto’s Fushimi Inari Shrine in Kyoto, Japan. In Buddhism, the robe of the Buddha, and of his monks, is saffron. In Buddhist ritual, the body of the deceased is wrapped in a saffron shroud before cremation. Though associated with death, for the Buddhist, saffron is also the color of joy, passion, generosity and wisdom.

The wisdom of Buddhism teaches us to embrace impermanence as a condition of life. In one of his most revealing remarks, Christo explains: “There is a kind of simplicity in these projects -- they are temporary, almost nomadic. This impermanence translates into an awareness of the vulnerability of things, of their passing away.” Things are vulnerable because they are empty -- they have no abiding essence; impermanence is the mark of this emptiness. Nothing lasts, everything passes away without leaving a trace -- except, perhaps, for memory, which fades as quickly as the rising sun disperses the night’s darkness. Emptiness, however, is not always the same. Indeed, according to Buddhism’s so-called Middle Way, there are 16 types of emptiness: Emptiness of the Ultimate, Emptiness of the Great, Emptiness of all Phenomena, even Emptiness of Emptiness. Sixteen types of emptiness -- one for each day of “The Gates’ ” brief life.

By giving us “The Gates,” Christo and Jeanne-Claude invite us to embrace the impermanence of the moment. Instantly passing away, the moment is the pulse of life. To miss the moment is to miss life itself: once, only once and never again. “The Gates” is here today, gone tomorrow -- gone forever. Just like us.

Mark C. Taylor is visiting professor of architecture and religion at Columbia University and professor of humanities at Williams College.