Fanni Somogyi

W O R D S • I D E A S : F A N N I S O M O G Y I

Sporadic blooms (of echinacea) by Fanni Somogyi

It is just the sculptures and my presence. There are no cameras in the field. Concrete, and steel forms are drizzled on evergreen patches in between long grass and golden rod. Abstract or figurative, colorful or rusted, you can discover hidden gems growing periodically. What was a prairie is now a sculpture park. We are restoring that status partially. The grass is only cut for walking paths, and the parking lot in the back.

I have two gloves on: an orange rubber glove and thick leather welding glove. I yank at the plant. Yank at it again, and my hands slip on its thorny surface. The thistle is relentless, but it must be removed to give way for the native species. When left unchecked the fields begin to bloom in that deadly, yet soft violet. My long cargo pants are tucked into my socks, dozed with Off! Deep Woods tick spray. That slightly toxic smell keeps wafting to my nostrils as I bend over and rip the 4’ tall plant out of the ground. The deer are frequent visitors to the park thus precaution must be taken against Lyme spreading ticks.

The long stalk is the last one from this patch. The bees, intoxicated by its smell, keep returning to its violet lollipop blooms. Meanwhile, Rusty, the big chalk-grey tomcat, has decided to make his home right in the middle of the pile. Unbothered by the thorns and drawn to the coolness of the leaves and buggy, still not warmed by the morning sun. I drop the plants off at the burn pile that we are to burn at the end of August. As the summer becomes hotter the mound grows each day with expectation like a pregnant belly. We are all looking forward to the iron pour that will precede the fire. Each morning I can hear them swinging the sledgehammer and breaking the old iron radiators. Like a dance there is an intimate rhythm to the deconstruction of these heating elements. I used to have those heaters in my bedroom, from what feels like eons ago and 4,805 miles away.

I set the buggy back in the tool barn, that had miraculously survived many tornados this past summer. Thinking that Shafer was far enough North I had not expected as many tornadoes as we have had. The ominous sirens and green churning clouds have become a frightening commonality. Each time we hear the alarms we dash inside and watch movies, like last week: the brilliant “Mermaid” starring Cher and Winona Ryder, in the basement. Someone is always sure to track the cat down.

I start back toward the living quarters.

Now, only a light breeze is blowing. The air is crisp, and some birds are fluttering about. Honeybees and butterflies sway in the wind looking for their breakfast. The trembling movement of these creatures is mimicked by the big flowing form at one corner of the park. I can see the blue waving and dancing in the wind from almost any point in the field. It is soft and undulating. Up close the fabric envelops and flows over my body. It has the rough texture of a densely woven plastic net, semi-translucent. A steel tube frames the work out in a long rectangular shape that stretches at least 50’ tall. Somehow the wind always seems to be blowing from the South-East, and I usually approach it from the North-West.

I pass through a layer of blue. I’m on the inside.

The rough fabric leaves my skin slightly itchy, but the breeze cools me back down. I look up to sky, a couple shades lighter than the net. The breeze carries me through the grass. I imagine that this is what bees feel when they fly through our windows pushing against soft organza curtains.

During my walk magenta blooms of echinacea can be glimpsed among the grass sporadically. I notice the heads of three concrete figures standing tall against the prairie drop grass and blue grama. I pass around the green until I find an opening. Three lanky figures come to face me. Their shape generally appears to be human, yet they are simplified into layers. The forms resemble topographical maps as if a person had been peeled back layer by layer like an onion. The curvatures of the body, usually soft, now ripples in hard concrete. Its surface is like sandpaper, coarse to the touch. The figures feel ghostly in their solitude, but they are also resolute in their presence. Their stark posture contrasts with the flowing subdued grass.

Eliza Evan based the figures in “The Compact” off Cycladic, Greek scanned female forms. She then simplified the forms based on geometry. I’m reminded of the extent that surveillance presides over our life and how our bodies are mapped and watched in public, and then archived as data points. Street cameras watch our every step, and our personal technologies follow us along on digital paths. I feel that sometimes the ad algorithms know my desires much before I do, but that is a story for another day.

I meander to the entrance of the park, to grab a strawberry popsicle from the fridge before I start the morning tour. I pass by another concrete artwork, drastically different from the former. It is a car, but it is not a car. It feels soft, squishy, and melted, like truffles left inside a car on any sunny day. “1994 Oldsmobile Achieva S” plops on the ground, spreading out like my thighs on the white plastic chairs by the St. Croix River side. While the texture of the figures is jagged, this form’s smooth glossy texture magnetizes my hands. As I run my fingers along the top of the car (only ~2’ high) I feel the subtle groove of every detail: the threshold from the hood to the side panels, the pattern on the edge of the tires, the small divot of the handle. I imagine Tamsie Ringler’s giant mold (most likely silicone without a mother mold) that the concrete had to be poured into. The mixture must have sloshed in it jiggling like gelatin. The lump also functions as a chair for the summer camp children huddled in groups waiting for the docent tour to start.

“Sporadic blooms (of echinacea)” is based off memories captured at the Franconia Sculpture Park, while I was an Emerging Artist Resident in the summer of 2019.

Fanni Somogyi is a multi-disciplinary artist and writer from Hungary and currently based in Baltimore. She explores modes of connections and metamorphosis through speculative works. She is a graduate of the Maryland Institute College of Art. She has previously been published in Hobart Literary Magazine and BmoreArt.

Website: www.fannisomogyi.com Instagram: @fanni_somogyi