Counterbalance Park
Roy Street and Queen Anne Avenue North
Brian Miller
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A previously unloved gravel-covered lot that had been scraped of its gas station (with pollution still beneath), this site abuts a highly trafficked, two-way/one-way, double-T-shaped intersection that continually baffles motorists. It did not seem like a promising place for a park. Yet the Uptown Alliance raised about half the $1.1 million makeover budget, with a lead gift of $225,000 from Raj and Akhil Shah of nearby acid-washed-jean dynasty Shah Safari; the city supplied the balance. Suddenly the place was clean, presentable, and opened with a ribbon-cutting appearance by Mayor Greg Nickels. For months, however, it seemed as if nobody noticed or used the place. Wood planking, gravel, and low concrete benches edged in stainless steel didn't exactly create an inviting atmosphere for family fun, especially with the constant threat of a confused Escalade driver careening into the unfenced lot. Only last December, when multicolored lighting suddenly began appearing there at night, did it become clear: This was the rare city park that was meant to shine after dark. That's only fitting, since the corner is mainly traversed by herds of singletons heading to Chopstix or Peso's. Designed by local artist Iole Alessandrini in conjunction with Murase Associates, the installation's tiny, programmable LEDs dramatically transform the two concrete-slab walls that bound the park's north and east aspects into screens for the wavering, vertical, borealis-like glow. For buzzed couples parked on the benches (also with erratic lighting beneath), the backdrop is now like a dispersed spectrum display: light pulled apart into its constituent parts. However, the LEDs have proven hard for the city to operate. Often, they're dark. Or, for no reason, lit during daytime. For most of April, the rainbow has been solid red, as if for Valentine's Day. After months of fussing and testing, the city finally pinpointed the problem as a line-voltage issue, says parks department spokeswoman Dewey Potter. The system has been completely rewired and should be working as it's supposed to this week.
Fountain of Wisdom
Seattle Central Library, 1000 Fourth Ave.
You may not like the ramps or the shelving or the noise inside, but five years on, the glassy, faceted exterior of the Rem Koolhaas–designed library has woven itself into the downtown fabric. Still, walking past, it's sometimes hard not to miss the small, rather cheap, but more intimate old International Style stack of boxes that was leveled to make way for this icon. Built in 1960, demolished in 2001, the prior library had a reader-friendly scale to it, with nooks and crannies and a courtyard facing Fifth Avenue containing Fountain of Wisdom by sculptor George Tsutakawa. The late local artist (1910–1997) didn't live long enough to see his work—the city's first public-art commission of note—relocated to the corner of Fourth and Madison, where it now sits, plaque-less, next to the new library entrance. The abstract bronze flanged structure developed from a series Tsutakawa modeled on the obo—in Japanese, a pile or cairn of rounded stones left by travelers—whose shape you'll find echoed in his many other subsequent fountains designed around the Northwest. But Fountain of Wisdom also rests in the postwar visual vocabulary of Brancusi and Jim Flora. It's not just traditional; there's something a little Jetsons about it—like a metal flower on a distant planet. It's all wrong for the aesthetic of Koolhaas, who probably hates flowers or anything curved and organic that defies his rigid geometry. It's a plucky little footnote to the big new building looming above.
Joshua Green Fountain
Alaskan Way near Pier 52
How did it get here? Does the fountain still work? Down the hill from the library, Tsutakawa's waterless, forlorn, scalloped creation sits on a state-owned waterfront traffic island at Yesler, right where the cars exit the Coleman Dock ferry terminal. Sadly situated, barely maintained, and completely forgotten, this upturned, petaled fountain honors the influential city mariner-turned-magnate (1869–1975). Perhaps the neglect stems from the long-delayed plans to replace or renovate the ferry terminal (yet another project that's been awaiting a viaduct decision), but surely this sad little flower deserves to be moved either to the Joshua Green Building (at Fourth and Union) or the historic Stimson-Green Mansion on First Hill.
Vertebrae
Safeco Plaza, 1001 Fourth Ave.
Henry Moore has been dead for 23 years. The British sculptor is not someone whose name you often hear these days. Once a progressive, modernist force, not a conceptualist or particularly clever, his legacy seems tied to the avant-garde innovations of the '20s and '30s, pre-WWII, pre-irony, pre-Pop, pre–Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons. In the year of his death, however, his eight-ton bronze Vertebrae briefly dominated Seattle news. Bought and installed in 1971 courtesy of the new SeaFirst bank tower, the sculpture was secretly sold to the Japanese by SeaFirst's Chicago landlord in '86. Alarmed at the controversy, Bank of America—which had bought SeaFirst following the local bank's '82 near-collapse—purchased Vertebrae back and donated it to SAM. And there it remains today on a very different streetscape. Bank of America moved; the tower became Safeco Plaza; and soon its name will perhaps change to Liberty Mutual, which bought the local insurer this year. The typically knobby, organic Moore still seems somewhat neglected and forlorn. The windy plaza, part of local architect NBBJ's original 1969 design, has always been a hostile Miesian wasteland. Adding a deli and flower shop at the north edge hasn't helped. There's no comfortable place to sit on the sloping concrete; anti-skateboard barriers ring the pedestal and nearby planter. So why is the Moore still there? Removing it would help reconfigure the desolate plaza, and thousands more art lovers could appreciate Vertebrae in a different setting. SAM has the land. Eight tons isn't that heavy. All they need is a big truck. We could even hold a parade to follow it down to the Olympic Sculpture Park.
