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Renowned pop artist James Rosenquist volunteers his time and dynamic creativity to produce an eye-catching sculpture for the new All Children's Research Institute building in St. Petersburg.
By MARY ANN MARGER, Times Staff Writer
© St. Petersburg Times, published February 10, 2002
ST. PETERSBURG -- That huge, bright bandage, newly affixed to a medical building just south of downtown, has been drawing reaction since it was installed last month.
Viewers are charmed by the resemblance to the colorful adhesive strips children like to stretch across their cuts and scrapes, even the imaginary ones. Stars and a tic-tac-toe game are painted on the bandage. A cheery rainbow decorates one end of the 30-foot sculpture.
One detail, though, is somber: at the center, what appears to be a splotch of blood. This bandage is not from any make-believe boo-boo. That's because serious stuff goes on behind the brown wall that the bandage adorns.
The work, as yet untitled, is the creation of a man with a reputation even bigger than his artwork, and a heart to match.
James Rosenquist, an internationally known pop artist who lives in Hernando County, accepted no pay for the work, which required more than a year to create. He calls it "an offer I couldn't refuse."
The work is on the All Children's Hospital University of South Florida Children's Research Institute, devoted to national pediatric research. Dennis Sexton, president and chief executive officer of All Children's Health Systems, thought a public art sculpture on the building would identify it with children's health needs.
Placed at the top of the building at 420 Sixth Ave. S, it can be seen easily from cars exiting a nearby interstate ramp. It's less visible from Fourth Street, where the view is blocked by a road sign and a tree.
The bandage measures 30 feet long by 9 feet wide and bends forward at an upper flap. Just above center is the "gauze pad" with its evidence of a wound. The top flap and the portion beneath contain a variety of symbols: assorted stars, a musical clef, mystic numbers, a spiral, a lightning bolt and a game of tic-tac-toe, suggesting meanings ranging from the spiritual to the playful. The bottom portion of the strip is a blend of skin tones, much the same shade as the building.
Between the skin and the ouch is a rainbow of colors.
"It means that there is no hurt there: finding the cure before the hurt," Sexton said.
Other interpretations are encouraged. You don't need absolute answers, just the power of a child's mind to consider the possibilities.
The project got its start when Sexton approached Vince Ahern, coordinator of public art at USF's Institute for Research in Art, who would oversee the project. Ahern suggested proposing the idea to Rosenquist.
Because the sculpture belongs to USF, it qualified for a $40,000 grant from the Art in State Buildings Program. But that amount wouldn't begin to cover a work of such scale -- 270 square feet -- by an artist of Rosenquist's stature.
Though Rosenquist's art is in museums and collections all over the world, he had never done public art sculpture. Ahern figured he'd have to raise the money to pay the fee.
To give Rosenquist an idea of the project, Sexton invited him to tour All Children's Hospital.
Rosenquist was deeply moved. "Sexton took me on a tour of the new baby ward, and there were a hundred babies with all sorts of problems. I looked at those babies and I thought, I'm going to do it for free."
Sexton then approached Tom James, chairman of Raymond James Financial Inc. and a major supporter of the arts. "When I said the name Jim Rosenquist, he was immediately interested," Sexton says.
James established the Raymond James All Children's Rosenquist Fund of $100,000 to set up the project and maintain it in perpetuity. (The dollar value of the work itself has not yet been determined.)
Rosenquist, who declined even expenses for the project, spent more than a year working on the piece, coming up with the right placement, scale, shape, medium and theme for a state-of-the-art research facility on diseases that afflict children.
Public art involves collaboration with people from many sectors. Richie Stauffer of Aripeka fabricated the bandage-shaped structure of honeycomb aluminum with a fiberglass surface and stainless steel reinforcement.
Rosenquist worked on the piece outside his Aripeka home for more than a year. Looking more like a construction worker than an artist and guided by his initial design, he would mount a platform, 18 or 20 feet high, to work on the piece, then allow it to dry. Unlike a canvas for indoor display, the piece required the use of resin paint, which needs extra drying time.
Rosenquist wants to call the work Band-Aid for All Children's Hospital, which may involve getting permission from Johnson & Johnson to use the copyrighted name.
Rosenquist, 68, is known for the great size and vibrancy of his works. His images are easily recognizable, as one might expect from an artist who began his career painting billboards. Using leftover sign paint in New York City in the 1960s, he made the switch to fine art. He didn't change his style, just the way his work was read. Instead of conveying messages in an instant, he confounds the viewer with colossal blowups of images in contexts that have no clear-cut meaning.
Rosenquist was among a group of artists in New York in the 1960s to explore morphing subjects of popular consumer culture into high art. Others included Jasper Johns, Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol. All are among the leaders of the pop art movement.
Rosenquist's achievements range from retrospectives in major museums (a show at New York's Guggenheim is forthcoming), service on the National Endowment for the Arts and commissions and museum acquisitions around the world. He moved to Aripeka in 1976 but still maintains homes in New York City and in Westchester, N.Y.
Last year he was inducted into the Florida Artists Hall of Fame, an honor that seemed overdue.
The sculpture will be dedicated April 23.
- Mary Ann Marger, who recently retired as the St. Petersburg Times art critic, writes occasionally for the Times.