As much as plants and hardscape can define a public space, so can art. Yet, art in gardens and parks can be fraught, both politically and aesthetically. In recent years, monuments to Civil War leaders and historic figures have come under scrutiny and often reassessed, resulting in the removal of many of them, particularly across the South but throughout the country.
So, on a recent trip to Birmingham, Alabama, I wondered what we might see in a city that was not only at the center of the Confederacy but also at the center of the civil rights movement. The city is remarkably pleasant and livable, with a central business district surrounded by neighborhoods and parks. The city is now so inviting that it was hard to imagine the strife that filled it sixty years ago, but a visit to a small square across from the 16th Street Baptist Church shed some light on the past and the present. This church, home of considerable civil rights activity, was the site of a bombing in 1963 that killed four young African American women.
As we came upon the square, Brian and I had an odd sensation. Despite its connection to that violent act that took the lives of four innocent young women, something about the space felt at peace and resolved. From the patterns of the soil and roots of the old trees in the park to the graceful entrance that highlights several civil rights leaders, there was something elegant, stately, and mysteriously serene. The artwork within the park ranged from sculptures of unleashed attack dogs soaring in midair, to paths with bronze facsimiles of water guns aimed at marchers on the bridge in Selma, to statues of African Americans standing up for the right to be treated fairly. Given its history, how does this space manage to feel so resolved?
What was intriguing about the sculptures was that, although they represented acts of horrific violence, they managed not to focus on the fear these brave individuals must have felt. Instead, statues of snarling dogs frozen in midair allowed one to walk through somehow unscathed and above it all. And while the statues of the people being hosed down by the water guns could have depicted these people as victims, there was something in these figures that was dignified, heroic and strong. The statues highlighted their power, not their powerlessness. In the church where the bombing took place, there is a stained-glass window funded by the children of Scotland to honor those who lost their lives in the civil rights movement; the window depicts a man holding one hand clenched to continue the fight and the other hand outstretched as a gesture of peace, demonstrating that both determination and forgiveness would be required to move forward.
At the other end of the park, in front of the church, a sculpture of the four young women killed in the bombing is marked by a grace in their playful interaction and in a bird flying off to its freedom, showing what great art can accomplish—the ability to take flight and soar beyond the darkness of the moment. It is rare for a landscape to memorialize something so dark and still to give us hope. It reminds us that art and nature can work together to heal all of us in times of need.
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A gardener grows through observation, experimentation, and learning from the failures, triumphs, and hard work of oneself and others. In this sense, all gardeners are self-taught, while at the same time intrinsically connected to a tradition and a community that finds satisfaction through working the soil and sharing their experiences with one another. This column explores those relationships and how we learn about the world around us from plants and our fellow gardeners.
