[MUSIC PLAYING]
SARAH URIST GREEN: There is an abundance
of open space in Utah.
And we were there to see just a handful of spots within it,
lured by the siren song of some of the best loved
earthworks of the 1970s.
Would they live up to the hype?
Could they compete with this vast, unforgiving landscape?
And what, if anything, is happening out here now?
Driving north from Salt Lake City,
its density dissipated quickly as we
wound our way deeper and deeper into the countryside.
After two hours, we made a last stop
at the Golden Spike National Historic site,
where on May 10, 1869, the first transcontinental railroad
was completed, joining East and West right
here with the ceremonial golden spike.
From there, we waited for this kind gentleman
to finish smoothing out the dirt road,
and followed a sign pointing us toward our destination.
Robert Smithson's 1970 artwork "Spiral Jetty" extends off
Rozel Point Peninsula on the northeastern shore of Great
Salt Lake, which we caught glimpses of as we approached.
After a time, we rounded a low hill
and passed the remnants of some old piers,
and realized we were reaching the site, which Smithson wrote
he liked because it, quote, "Gave evidence
of a succession of man-made systems mired in abandoned
hopes."
The jetty begins as an indistinct form,
jutting out from the rocks.
But its spiral shape became more and more clear upon approach.
Over the course of about a week in April of 1970,
a construction crew hired by Smithson
moved from the shoreline over 6,000 tons
of earth and black basalt rocks, to form this coil, 15 feet wide
and 1,500 feet long.
And there you are.
There's no label, no instructions.
It tells you what to do, insofar as there really
isn't anything else to do.
You walk it, making your way through rocks and sand,
the spiraling shape giving you views in all directions.
All the while, you appreciate the many layers of time
you're experiencing.
There's the geologic time you're made aware of,
when gases trapped in erupting lava
formed the pocked surface of the basalt rocks.
And you can't help but contemplate the particularity
of the Great Salt Lake, the largest remnant
of Lake Bonneville, which, during the Pleistocene Epoch,
covered the western half of Utah and parts of Idaho and Nevada.
Since the current lake has no outlet other than evaporation,
it's way saltier than seawater.
And since it's so shallow, the water level
rises and falls dramatically depending on precipitation.
You're acutely aware of what's changed since Smithson made
this, as the water met the edge of the coil in 1970,
but submerged it just a couple of years later.
And it remained that way until 2004,
when drought caused it to re-emerge.
It's been visible since, although its appearance shifts
dramatically, precisely what attracted Smithson to the site.
Microbes and algae in the water can turn this north arm
of the lake a distinct red.
And foam and salt encrust the jetty in other-worldly ways.
Smithson's study of science informed the spiraling shape
of the jetty, referencing the molecular lattice of salt
crystal deposits, as well as the spiral
motifs of nearby American Indian rock art.
The piece was made to be experienced
in person, of course.
But Smithson also gave it life through an accompanying essay
and documentation, capturing aerial shots of the jetty
and making a film about it.
I'd seen that documentation numerous times.
But being there in person far surpassed my high expectations,
and quieted my inner critic, who worried
that this monumental macho gesture might fall flat
in person.
It did not.
To make "Spiral Jetty," Smithson researched and traveled
extensively, looking at natural formations and prehistoric art
with friends and with his wife, artist Nancy Holt, whose work
we were on our way to see next.
They're both known as pioneers of the Land Art movement, when
in the late 1960s and '70s artists
look for ways to exit the studio and gallery
and make art out in the world.
This time also saw the birth of the environmental movement,
and a growing awareness of human impact on the planet.
Speaking of, we also passed Orbital ATK
out here, which develops and test rocket
launchers and ammunition.
We drove for several hours through Box Elder County,
passing fewer and fewer cars as we went,
making our way toward Nancy Holt's "Sun Tunnels," which
was constructed between 1973 and '76, out here
in the Great Basin Desert.
Simple signage reassured us we were on the right track.
And the road opened up to a flat expanse before us.
Holt wanted to ensure that the land around the piece
remained clear and uninterrupted.
And to a large extent that has remained true.
"Sun Tunnels" is composed of four concrete cylinders,
each nine feet in diameter and 18 feet in length.
They are aligned in pairs along the axis of the rising
and setting Sun on summer and winter solstice.
The tunnels are striking to experience
from within and without, framing views of each other
and the desolate, magnificent landscape that surrounds.
Holes cut through the tunnels form the constellations
of Draco, Perseus, Columba, and Capricorn.
And throw light into the interiors
in changing ways throughout the day
and at different times of the year.
The tunnels provide shelter from Sun
and wind in a way that feels important in this wide-open
space, and also provides scale, giving you
an anchor of sorts in this vast expanse, a man-made frame
of reference among all that surrounds you.
As you walk among, and between, and around the tunnels,
360-views are segmented and framed
into more digestible portions, almost like a photograph.
Photography was central to Holt's practice.
And you can really feel that here,
not just from the documentation of the piece that she
acknowledged as a way of experiencing it,
but from the way the piece functions,
the way it directs and delimits your view.
Before either this or "Spiral Jetty" was made,
Holt and Smithson traveled to Stonehenge
and other prehistoric megalithic rock structures
in England and Wales, also visiting
ancient and medieval ruins, mining districts,
and industrial sites.
These histories are very much alive in both works,
giving us a long view of human intervention on the Earth,
and providing destinations within this,
our limitless universe.
The next day took us to Wendover,
right on the border between Utah and Nevada,
home to "Wendover Willy," several fine casino
resorts, and a former Air Force base, which during World War II
was the training site for the crews that carried out
the atomic bombings.
The "Enola Gay," which dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, Japan,
was housed in this hangar.
Wendover is also a home of the Center for Land Use
Interpretation, whose Orientation Building is open
every day and greets you with this message.
ANNOUNCER: Welcome to the Center for Land Use Interpretation's
Wendover Orientation Building.
SARAH URIST GREEN: Inside, we found a wealth of information
about the history and present of Wendover and the region.
The organization is dedicated to understanding the nature
and extent of human interaction with the surface of the Earth.
They share information.
And they also encourage new explorations
of the contemporary landscape, producing exhibitions
and events, publishing books, and offering
research resources.
In the past, they've offered partnerships and residencies
with artists and anyone working in or around the field
of land use.
And you can see evidence of these activities around town.
They occupy a number of Wendover buildings,
including studios and the Residency Support
Unit, an off-the-grid live/work facility.
And also this aptly named, partially missing building,
which was once an armament and inspection
building for the base.
It's currently home to an installation by artist
William Lamson, which you can access anytime
you like by opening the black box to the left
of the gray door, entering 1212 into the key box,
and then using that key to open the gray door.
Don't forget to lock it and return
the key when you're done.
Inside, you'll encounter "Mineralogy,"
a multi-year installation that transformed a former bathroom
into the space you see here, a room just one foot
shy of the interior dimensions of Thoreau's cabin at Walden
Pond, filled with a variety of artifacts and vessels
that have been repeatedly filled with salt water
and allowed to evaporate.
You see it through viewing windows,
that both protect the work's delicate salt crystal
formations and also give you the distinct feeling that you're
viewing a scene from the past.
Lamson brought together a variety of objects
to set the scene, including a number of books,
and pictures, and objects that his dad used
to keep in their basement.
Salt has encrusted the vessels and expanded
onto their surroundings, extending into delicate columns
and dripping down the walls.
Books have bloated with saltwater,
and in some cases tumbled to the floor.
When the artist is away, a solar-powered system
turns on once a day to irrigate the space.
But he was in town, and we followed him
as he went to collect fresh saltwater to refill
the installation storage tanks.
The salt flats just east of Wendover
have been mined since World War I,
extracting minerals from the flats
by flooding and draining vast areas
and bringing the minerals into solution.
Evaporation ponds dry out undesired minerals,
and eventually leave behind potash and magnesium chloride.
This operation, Intrepid Potash, has
given Lamson access to their ponds and saltwater
for free, which he pumped from a collection pond as we explored
the sweeping alien landscape that surrounded us,
which I kept having to remind myself was not covered in snow.
Tanks replenished, Lamson refilled the vessels
within the installation, to allow the geologic process
to continue and the work to further develop and transform.
There's a clear connection between what he's doing here
in Wendover and Smithson's Utah efforts,
exploring the effects of time, allowing for and encouraging
the natural, inevitable disintegration and evolution
of our physical world.
On our way out of town the next morning,
we made a final stop at the Bonneville Salt Flats,
where numerous land speed records have
been achieved at annual races.
There are no buildings here and no roads.
Just about 50 square miles of salt flat,
which, like now, is flooded for a good portion
of the year, reflecting a huge sky and the surrounding
mountains.
That doesn't stop people from getting out there anyway.
And tracks are visible throughout.
Traces of human intervention have been detectable
throughout our epic Utah journey.
While at points you feel like you're alone out here,
without a rest stop or cell service for miles,
there are reminders everywhere, if you look for them,
of what we're doing here and what we've done, on scales
small and very, very large.
This episode is supported in part by viewers like you,
through Patreon.
Special thanks to Indianapolis Homes Realty, and all
of our patrons.
[MUSIC PLAYING]