Pocket Dispatch from Shit Fountain
When we bought our first apartment we explored the neighborhood more thoroughly, no longer as a place we liked but as a place to which we now laid some claim. Through this process we came to know Shit Fountain, a sculpture of an impossibly large coil of dog feces, maybe two-and-a-half feet in diameter, shiny and wet from the water babbling from its tip, and mounted on a pedestal about four feet tall.
The artist’s statement was directed at neighborhood dog owners who neglect to clean up after their pets, imperiling floor mats and welcome rugs everywhere. Ours is a shoe-free household, but even the worn carpet of our building’s staircase has fallen victim to the violent laziness of certain local dogspeople.
I found it tasteless. When Shit Fountain first appeared on mapping apps, I flagged its name for editing when its name wasn’t censored. But its presence there also made it a landmark we used to help guests and delivery drivers find our apartment. Despite my resentment, Shit Fountain served me.
And even in my disdain for it, I never hoped it would be removed. Censorship of the work itself never seemed appropriate. Even the vulgar name only bothered me contextually, like when my daughter learned to read well enough to ask what it meant.
Whatever my feelings, Shit Fountain remains an enduring fixture, and I have come to appreciate it as political art and a fine tip on the neighborhood’s edge.
Still, I was surprised Shit Fountain grew on me. I realized it one Sunday afternoon when I was looking for parking and found a spot in front of it, where a group of brunch revelers were posing for photos with it. This was typical, but I was surprised to see one of them climbing the fountain.
He planted a foot on the edge of the pedestal, braced his weight with a hand on another sculpture and placed his feet on two edges of the fountain’s pedestal. Then he squatted so as to appear to have produced the coil himself. He grinned at the friend taking his photo and gave a thumbs up.
For some reason I was offended by this. Although I’d watched tourists pose stupidly in front of Shit Fountain for years, something about this guy bruised my pride in our neighborhood, which harbors the artist who created it. Or my pride in the artist, who harbors our neighborhood.
I parked far, leaving more than a foot between my tires and the curb. Not my best work, and an embarrassment of another kind to deal with later. Then I threw open the car door.
“Hey, I know it’s super funny to take your picture with it like that,” I said, dragging out “super” for effect. “But it’s still a piece of art, and you can treat it with respect.”
The man’s eyes widened, and his friends turned to look as he hopped down.
“Sorry,” he said.
I ignored him and took two bags out of my trunk, locked the car, and walked off toward my apartment.
Fucking kids.