Sculptural Surprises Grace the Streets

It is the outdoor art season in New York and therefore a good time to ask what makes for a successful piece of urban public art. When art ventures away from the nurturing shelter of the white-walled gallery, it must contend with all kinds of distractions: huge buildings; noisy vehicular and pedestrian traffic; spectacular, sexy commercial signs with dizzying video imagery; unpredictable weather; the verdant beauty of a park; and the sheer interestingness and variety of so much else that in the artificial and natural fabric of the city.

One way for public art to distinguish itself is to be really big. This year’s prize for size should go to Jaume Plensa’s “Echo,” a gigantic, ghostly, white head of a girl in Madison Square Park. Towering 44 feet, it is made of molded fiberglass resin parts fitted together so the seams show. It looks as if it had been carved from a huge, laminated block of marble, and the girl’s features are rendered smoothly as if they had been eroded by the elements over the years. The head is also oddly distorted — flattened in such a way that it resembles a digitally manipulated three-dimensional photograph or a hologram. Viewed from a distance at night, when it is bathed in the bright light of lamps around its base, it seems to glow, a silently plaintive specter conjured, maybe, by the guilty conscience of a rapacious modernity.

Less spectacular but effectively haunting in its own way — partly because of its grand scale — is one of a number of works commissioned by the High Line: a greatly enlarged black-and-white photograph by Robert Adams mounted on a billboard next to that elevated park. Made in 1978 in rural Nebraska, the photograph shows a narrow, much weathered country road running between fields of tall grass and extending from the foreground to the top of a low, faraway hill. Dried, fallen leaves from small trees have gathered at the side of the road. A melancholy mood is enhanced by blocks of funereal black filling in the oblong expanse of the billboard on either side of the picture. Like Mr. Plensa’s sculpture the photograph evokes something neglected, a soulful road not taken. But there is too an eerie feeling of hopefulness, of a possibility not yet foreclosed. (The billboard will regularly present landscapes by eminent photographers selected by the photographer Joel Sternfeld.)

Mr. Adams’s photograph works not only because of its drive-in-movie scale but also because it is so different from the kind of visual material that normally attracts and assaults the public eye. A few yards farther up the High Line, strollers come upon another billboard: not an artwork but a huge advertisement for Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club. With its blaring purple and gold hues and the come-hither expression of the sultry woman it pictures, it must be an embarrassing thorn in the side of the High Line’s administrators, who clearly favor low-key subtlety over high-impact flash. Another expansive piece on the High Line, for example, is a long wall of windows by Spencer Finch called “The River That Flows Both Ways.” Each of hundreds of panes is the color of a pixel from a photograph of the surface of the Hudson River. Jade, wine, teal and other muted hues produce a lovely, quiet symphony of color.

An elephantine sculpture in front of the Seagram Building on Park Avenue at 53rd Street has much going for it: impressive scale, contrast with the normal environment and popularly appealing imagery. Urs Fischer’s “Untitled (Lamp/Bear)” is a 23-foot-tall representation of a lumpy yellow stuffed bear wedged into the space between the base and the shade of an old desk light. Weighing in at almost 17 tons, it is made of painted cast bronze and has table-top size button eyes sewn on with rope. The light glows at night. (Christie’s, the auction house that recently sold the sculpture, organized its outdoor presentation.)

For contemporary art followers the obvious comparisons are Jeff Koons sculptures like the giant shiny “Balloon Dog” and the flower-covered “Puppy.” But the Fischer displays little of the fanatical attention to surface and detail seen in Mr. Koons’s work. It also relates to the tradition of the Duchampian found object and the absurdist Pop Art monuments of Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen. Leaving aside its presumptive pedigree, however, it is not very different technically and aesthetically from the kitschy, Pop-realist sculptures of J. Seward Johnson, whose enormous representation of Marilyn Monroe in her upward-billowing dress has caused much debate in Chicago since its recent installation there downtown.