September 9, 2005

[Originally published in the 2005 Expo newspaper]

-- Read about other guerrilla art interventions in the Expo DIY Library.

-- Read the Hearts in SF response to this essay

To me, "Hearts in San Francisco," the 2004 citywide exhibition of heart-shaped "art" lacked a certain, well, heart. I eagerly shared my feelings with whomever would listen. Wells Fargo had one covered in special commemorative coins, a display of wealth I consider offensive in the name of public art. Few of the more than one hundred artists commissioned took any risks, visual or otherwise. In a time of war, this is hard to stomach. While I was relieved to see one work by Rigo that had some sense of humanity, I was genuinely disappointed by the invasion of such toothless art in a city with such a rich field of talent.

We were having beers after work when N said, "We ought to make our own and put them all over the place." I said, "If you're serious, I'll put resources into it." A deal was struck, and we began to work on the project. N had access to a Computer Numerically Controlled tool, which would cut the shapes. I wanted practice on a drawing program, so we started work while we were still trying to come up with good concepts and placement ideas for our hearts. We would religiously copy the originals to scale, and would make the hearts out of half-inch plywood bolted together with an angle iron. Three hearts seemed doable, especially if N brought K on the scene.

There were lots of details to work out, but I think we came up with three good responses to "Hearts in San Francisco." K's was a war message, titled Lucky in Love, but Not in War, played off the shape of the heart, depicting a four-leafed clover. N's heart, Weapon of Mass Destruction, was upended with the point facing the sky, like a missile, and was covered in camouflage paint and military-style stencils. Mine, Home is Where the Heart is, was a shelter that could sleep two. It was complete with a bed, dry socks, towels, a photo gallery and a message board.

We loaded the hearts in the back of my pick-up truck. We were cheered for and stared at as darkness fell upon us. Dressed in coveralls, we piled out at the bottom of Market Street on the Embarcadero, and as fortune had it, we were nestled amid a cancer fundraising walk. We put out orange cones and unloaded. No one bothered us, and no one asked any hard questions.

It appeared to be no one's job to remove our work, so it survived for days, before apparently capturing the attention of, who else, but the "Hearts" people. How else could we explain away the eyewitness account of a certain obscure brand of rental truck we had previously seen load and move the official art. In the four-and-a-half days it stood in Justin Herman Plaza, many people wrote greetings and supplied feedback on my piece, but I missed seeing it that last day. N, K and I had just decided to do an interview with The San Francisco Chronicle. Our hearts disappeared less than an hour before we were supposed to meet our interviewer. This allowed for our anonymity to remain, which I appreciate, along with the irony.

I think our hearts changed the context of the sanctioned art--and improved it. We succeeded in punctuating the exhibition in a subtle and artful way. It set us back a few hundred dollars, but I would certainly do it again.