Adam K. K. Figueira
A year ago, when the First Presidency announced that they were commissioning twelve new permanent art installations to be scattered around Millennium Park and unveiled this spring, the news could hardly have been met with greater enthusiasm. New Jerusalem was already buzzing with the arrival of the Ten Tribes (remember not to call them “lost”) from the mysterious Land of the North the month before, and the big question on everyone’s mind was who would be the chosen artists. The Saints have always been a creative people. It could have been almost anyone.
In the end, the method of selection could best be described as downright biblical. One artist, or team of artists, in some cases, from each of the twelve tribes of Israel was chosen (Levi was excluded, for obvious reasons), and invited to live in residence at New Jerusalem for the coming year while they completed their assignment. Some saw this as unfairly favoring the new arrivals, but since they are responsible for swelling the Kingdom of God to its current impressive size—and thereby discouraging aggression from some of our neighbors in the kingdoms of Babylon—it seems only fair to me. In any case, the completed works themselves show that Brother Robinson and his counselors, Sister Okazaki and Brother Hargreaves, could hardly have made better choices.
In the coming weeks I’ll be releasing individual reviews of each installation. What follows is a tour of the exhibit as a whole, some highlights, and my overall impressions on the success of the project.
One of the most striking things about the various exhibits is how many of them hark back to earlier times when all the tribes were united, such as in the exodus from Egypt or during the 40 years of wandering in the wilderness. It’s true that the pieces tell a broad range of stories spread across time, but many of them have at least some connection to Old Testament lore. This seems like an attempt on the part of the artists from the Ten Tribes to signal their desire for unity with the full house of Israel. Take pieces like Zelph Bigelow’s Pillar, a towering work of sacred architecture from the tribe of Dan representing the famous column of smoke and fire that led the wandering Israelites, or Thy Servant Listens, an unmissable sonic installation from Issachar’s Nord and Cricket Berg, which invokes the story of young Samuel first hearing the voice of the Lord. These installations are olive leaves, reminding us that we are all one people, sharing the same concerns and following the same God, and that though our individual tales are different, they are all chapters of the same story.
Perhaps nowhere is this theme better represented than in Zebulun’s offering, Exodiiii, by Binta Mulunga, the celebrated sculptor. Consisting of four sculptures standing at the cardinal compass points around the park’s center spire, it depicts four kinds of exodus: the crossing of the Red Sea, the journey to the Salt Lake Valley, the recent return of the Ten Tribes, and a more personal exodus away from the things of the world, and toward the things of God. The graceful lines and expressive faces on Mulunga’s figures convey astounding emotion, while their figurative proportions and anatomy communicate their inner and outer struggles. For example, Moses’ supernaturally stretched out arms as he fights to hold the Rod of God above the churning waters evoke the ways we are changed when we go beyond our limits for the Lord; or Brigham Young’s two faces: one looking back with regret and pain, and the other looking forward to a glorious but not fully revealed vision of the future.
Each of the four sculpted scenes features multiple figures and landscape elements rising from a paved path, so that visitors can walk among and explore the figures in their environments. It is a truly immersive and emotional experience. And for those curious about the exodus of the Ten Tribes, the scene at the northern point features some intriguing details that I can only assume will be explained when the promised translation of their records is released this fall.
In addition to tribal identity, the artists also considered ability levels in their designs. From the smallest (Hàoyǔ Chén of Ephraim’s remarkable Jello Salad—more on that later) to the most massive (Bigelow’s Pillar), visitors of all ability levels will be able to access and appreciate the installations. Pillar, an enormous, walkable glass tower ending in a viewing platform that looks cloudy from the outside but clear from within, and that illuminates in fiery hues at night, features interconnected staircases and walkways, but also cleverly integrated elevators that don’t make you feel you’re missing the experience. Every other installation is similarly designed for easy access. Whether it’s wheelchair ramps, multilingual translations of text, audio options for the visually challenged, or holographic options for the hearing impaired, every detail has been considered.
In perhaps the most touching display of inclusion I’ve ever witnessed, Chén’s Jello Salad reaches across the veil to create art even for those who are waiting on the other side. Consisting of green glass cubes interspersed with suspended round white stones, it connects the biblical story of the gift of mana with a legendary food eaten at communal gatherings in the Great Salt Lake era. I explore this insightful connection in my full review of the piece, coming next week, but what truly makes it unforgettable is that the white stones used to represent both mana and a food item the artist calls “marshmallows,” are in fact fully functional Urim and Thummims. How Chén secured the permission to use these sacred tools, normally only available in family-history temples and ward libraries, for a permanent art installation, I have no idea, but I was moved to tears as I laid my hand on one, and watched as a waiting spirit from the other side inscribed his name on the stone, making it visible to my eyes, along with a strong message of gratitude for my willingness to help him receive the ordinances of salvation. In return, I sent him the name of a sister I’ve been concerned for, and he promised to seek her out and bless her in whatever way he could.
I’m told that someday we won’t need such tools, and that we’ll have open communication between both sides of the veil. But for now, I stand all amazed at artists like Chén, who even within seeming curiosities like this installation, manage to remember and bless generations of our spirit siblings. For convenience, Jello Salad is located near the entrance to the park’s underground baptismal font.
Well, my fellow sojourners, what more can I say of these exhibits? I could write about Mildred Espinoza of Gad’s Worlds Without End, an interactive holographic sandbox that lets you explore the role of the Creator, or ZCTI’s Curious Workmanship, helmed by Manasseh’s Jane Spencer, a supersized, functional model of the Liahona that lets you create your own messages for passers-by to enjoy, or half a dozen other remarkable installations, each with its own stories, its own insights, and its own opportunities for joy and communion.
But I’m going to do that later. For now, I think I’ll just say this: come down to Millennium Park and experience these installations firsthand. Come often, and stay as long as you can. If your experience is like mine, you will learn, you will feel, and you may leave feeling more united with the entire house of Israel than you have ever been before.
Adam K. K. Figueira is the first translated art critic since John the Beloved’s brief stint at Poetry in the 1920s. He wishes to express his gratitude for the opportunity.
PHONY
