Art Walk
When I need to unwind on Texas Tech’s campus, one of my favorite things to do is take a walk and admire the sculptures scattered around. There’s something about the evening light hitting these pieces that makes them come alive, adding a touch of artistic flair to the otherwise monotonous Spanish architecture that dominates the campus.
One sculpture that always catches my eye is “Read Reader” by Terry Allen located outside the student union building. The title is a clever nod to the university’s mascot, the “Red Raider.” If you can’t tell the sculpture of what I believe is a student on their way to class but entirely made up of books the source of all knowledge
Now, in today’s world, we might say the internet has become our main source of knowledge - just a cloud of 1s and 0s floating out there. I can’t help but wonder what Terry Allen would do with that concept. Would we see a person-shaped cloud of binary code instead? That would be something.
Then I think about its story. What is the sculpture trying to tell us? What can I get out of it? At first glance, it’s a statue of books reading books so it’s essentially reading itself. It’s using parts of itself to inform itself of the world, a meta-commentary on knowledge. Is that the message here? That knowledge resides within. On a profound level it could represent all the knowledge that is acquired at school where the person themselves becomes a source of that knowledge. After all, the figure is made entirely of books, symbolizing that as we learn, we absorb that knowledge until it becomes a part of us. In a way, we become the books we read, the knowledge we gain in school transforming us into living, breathing sources of that wisdom.
And isn’t that the objective of learning? you acquire knowledge by reading books until it becomes second nature, that shapes who we are and allows us to contribute back to the world? You yourself become the books. (That’s why at the end of the Doctorate degree you write a dissertation proving that you can contribute back to the world.) You gain knowledge, earn your degree, and become a source of that knowledge as a Bachelor, Master, or Doctor.
The next sculpture that I come across often is “Oblique Intersection” by artists Annie Han and Daniel Mihalyo.
This sculpture took me a while to fully grasp. the first thing that caught my attention was its construction - intricate small steel rods soldered together to form arched shapes. At one point, it even seems like there’s a spot designed for sitting. I was so captivated by the craftsmanship and the sheer amount of work that must have gone into creating it that it took me a few days to see the bigger picture. It wasn’t until I stepped back that the true form began to reveal itself. The way the steel rods work together to create internal shading that brings out the shapes of the architecture is nothing short of awe-inspiring. And what’s really fascinating is how the sculpture changes depending on where you stand - different elements of the architecture come to life from different angles, making each viewing a unique experience.
After many viewings and countless musings, I’ve finally come to grips with this artwork, but it still leaves me wondering: what’s the deeper meaning? What message were the artists trying to convey? Can I see into the artists’ minds and grasp what they envisioned during the design process?
The first thing that strikes me is how the sculpture references the surrounding architecture, with its Romanesque arches and square columns. There’s something unique about its opacity, though. As viewers, we’re drawn to deciphering the shadowy figures within the sculpture, but at the same time, our gaze naturally shifts to the buildings around it. It’s almost as if the sculpture is trying to merge with the school’s architecture, wanting to be just another campus building, but it can’t quite pull it off. Instead, it feels like an imposter, desperately trying to fit in but always standing just a bit apart.
I’ve been thinking about the title of this piece and came up with my own take on it. “Oblique” usually means something that isn’t quite parallel or at a right angle to anything else, and it also suggests something that’s not straightforward or direct. This sculpture perfectly embodies that idea.
It’s not a direct parallel to the original Spanish architecture or era it’s inspired by - it’s similar, but not a copy. There’s this sense of distance, both in time and space, that’s captured in the piece. It feels like you’re looking at the epitome of that style, but through a hazy lens, as if time itself has softened the edges. The result is a sculpture that feels both familiar and intriguingly distant, like a memory that’s just out of reach.
It’s as if the sculpture exists on an “oblique” plane, where it intersects between the present and a distant past, merging different times and places into one. It feels like it’s manifesting itself to us from the other plane, offering a glimpse into a world where these eras and spaces collide.
(Interesting to note that the British use of “oblique” is another term for slash and there’s a visible slash made by the stairs that traverse through the form from bottom to top.)
As I read the placard, it mentions that the sculpture is a commentary on the transposition of architecture across continents and time, which ties in perfectly with what I’ve been thinking. It’s a reflection on how time and architecture both preserve and alter our surroundings. Some elements, like arches, columns, and the shapes of windows and doors, remain constant in some form or another - after all, you need to let light into a room, and you need an entry point for people to come and go. Buth then there are the aspects that do change: construction techniques, materials, and the entire design process evolve over time. This sculpture serves as a reminder of that continuity and change - a visual representation of how architecture adapts yet stays rooted in its fundamental purposes.
The next sculpture that I often find myself stopping to admire regularly is the sculpture titled Illuminated Arboreal Data Codes by the artist Koryn Rolstad. The main feature of the sculpture is tall, red vertical structures. The central column of each structure branches out to more angular forms, ending in circular motifs. What’s really cool is that these circles fluctuate between green and golden depending on how they catch the sun. Directly in front of these structures is an area demarcated by low brick walls. Within this area you’ll find that contains four strips of metal, each etched with different ways of communicating data: binary, brail, morse code, and cuneiform. These engravings spread out toward the viewer.
The tree structures cleverly symbolize the dynamics of data communication. The way the branches extend and end in circular motifs suggests two distinct directions of communication flow. If we think of communication and understanding flowing from the trunk to the branches, this could depict how one “symbol” can branch out to convey multiple definitions. Take, for example, the image of a dog. This singular symbol can represent a variety of ideas: a beloved pet, an animal that loves to run, something furry with a tail, or even a guard that deters trespassers. These interpretations spread out from a central symbol, showing how communication can be rich and multifaceted, depending on the context and the viewer’s perspective.
If we think of communication and understanding flowing the opposite direction, from the branches down, this could depict how communication and understanding involves looking at multiple pieces of information to arrive at a single conclusion. This process is fundamental to experiments and research in general. In these fields, we examine individual pieces of data - each representing a different branch or aspect of the subject - before bringing them together to form a well-supported conclusion much like how the branches of a tree ultimately connect back to a single, sturdy trunk.
As we explore the rest of the sculpture, our attention is drawn to the four metal strips embedded in concrete, radiating outward from the tree structures. These strips are engraved with four distinct systems of data communication: binary, Braille, Morse code, and cuneiform. Each of these systems represents a different way of encoding and transmitting information. Binary, for instance, is the fundamental language of computers. It’s a system of ones and zeros that, when combined and processed, can represent anything from a simple number to complex images or sounds - essentially anything that can be digitally encoded. These binary codes are meticulously crafted for the purpose of computing, serving as the building blocks for all digital communication and data processing. Braille is a method of communication designed for people who are visually impaired. Its development was revolutionary, as it opened up access to communication and information that had previously been limited to those who could see. By using a tactile system of raised dots, Braille allows those with visual impairments to read and write, effectively bridging a gap and making information more inclusive. Morse code was a breakthrough in long-distance communication. For the first time, it enabled people in distant communities to communicate with each other quickly and effectively. Cuneiform holds a special place in history as one of the earliest writing systems. Developed in ancient Mesopotamia, cuneiform allowed people to record and transmit information in a way that could be understood by anyone who knew how to read it. This early form of writing laid the groundwork for the development of written language and communication as we know it today.
As these four strips of metal radiate from the tree structures, they evoke the image of streams of water flowing outward, connecting the central trees to the surrounding space. These streams symbolize the flow of communication, moving from one location to another, much like how information is shared and exchanged. The immobility of the strips suggests that this flow can be interpreted in either direction - either from the viewer to the trees or form the trees to the viewer. This duality reinforces the idea that communication is inherently a two-way process. It’s not just about sending information out: it’s also about receiving and interpreting it whether we see the streams flowing from the trees, representing the dissemination of knowledge, or from the viewer, symbolizing the act of inquiry and engagement, the sculpture captures the reciprocal nature of communication. Just as water flows and nourishes both its source and its destination, effective communication involves both giving and receiving, creating a continuous exchange that enriches both parties.
This sculpture represents a more technical concept compared to the others mentioned here. What’s interesting is that the sculpture itself acts as a form of communication - art, after all, is a form of communication. It’s a way the artist can tell the viewer what the artist feels about a certain topic. In this case it’s communication itself. The main features represent trees which makes sense given the title - with “Arboreal” related to trees. Trees, of course, are a part of nature and the four strips represent streams. This could be the artists way of saying that communication is fundamental to nature. Nature is full of examples of communication, whether it is animals signaling their moods, mating calls, or flowers communicating to insects that they are ready for pollination.
The final sculpture that I like to muse on and admire on my walks is Run by Simon Donovan and Ben Olmstead. You can spot it right by the Texas Tech football stadium. The sculpture depicts a figure of a person running and is constructed to look like a stop motion sequence. But what really sets it apart is the material and construction. Instead of being carved from a solid block, the figure is made up of individual steel pieces that create sort of topographical effect. It’s like looking at a 3D version of a topographic map, with layers that define the shape of the runner. Perched on a pedestal, the sculpture forces you to look up from the below, which gives it an even more dynamic feel. The coolest part is as the viewer moves around the sculpture each figure becomes almost invisible. The steel pieces are arranged in such a way that when viewed from certain angles, you’re looking through the gaps between the edges, and suddenly part of the sculpture vanishes.
It is fitting that Run is positioned at the country’s largest contiguous sports complex. The artists are capturing something more than just the image of a single runner - they’re depicting the spirit of teamwork. The idea that “the many become one” really comes through in the design. According to the artists, the sculpture isn’t based on just one person. Instead, each figure of the sculpture depicts a Texas Tech track team member, stitched together to form the illusion of a single runner. What we see is one continuous motion of running, but in reality, it’s the combined actions of many different runners. This feels like a perfect metaphor for teamwork: many individuals working together in perfect sync to achieve one unified goal. Each runner contributes, just like each teammate, blending their efforts to create a singular, harmonious outcome. In this case a singular sculpture.
Another aspect of Run that really emphasizes the theme of teamwork is how the runner seems to disappear depending on the viewer’s perspective. It’s almost as if the sculpture is making a statement: when you try to focus on the individual, they vanish, blending seamlessly into the whole. This could also be seen as a reminder to athletes, and people in general, that true success in a team setting often requires putting the collective goals above personal recognition. The sculpture suggests that in order for the team to achieve its goals, each member’s individuality needs to disappear. It’s not about any one person - it’s about how everyone comes together as one. The disappearing runner reflects this idea, as though the athlete becomes so deeply embedded in the team’s efforts that their individual identity fades away, leaving behind the unified force of the group.
(conclusion phenomenology)
When we look at a piece of art, whether it’s a painting, a sculpture, or even an abstract work, one of the first things we often ask ourselves is, “What does this piece say to me?” Artists have their own way of sharing their ideas, but how do we, as the audience, interpret them? It’s a big question, and philosophers have tried to tackle it. One of these philosophers, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, offers an interesting perspective that helps us see things a little differently.
In the final chapter of his book The Visible and Invisible, Merleau-Ponty dives into how we perceive the world around us. According to him, we don’t just understand things through abstract thinking or knowledge - we understand them through our senses. He likens this experience to something as simple as touching.
This is the ultimate sensory experience: the act of touching your own hand. Picture this: you take one hand and touch the palm of your other hand. With the touching hand, you can feel the texture of your skin - the ridges, the wrinkles, and all the unique details. At the same time, with your other hand, you sense the location of your finger, how hard or soft it’s pressing, and how the touch feels against your palm. It’s and experience that’s both active and passive - you’re both touching and being touched, so there’s no disconnect between the action and the sensation. There’s no room for deception. you can’t lie to yourself about what you’re feeling. You know exactly what’s happening, and there’s no filter. This interaction with your senses is raw, direct, and truthful.
In the case of experiencing art, we can’t be like the hand that’s being “touched” or felt - we can only be the one doing the “touching” the art. In this sense, “touching” means experiencing the artwork through our senses, like seeing, hearing, or feeling it. We can only engage with the art from our own point of view. The only thing that can truly be “touched” in this exchange is the artwork itself. But since art isn’t a living, sentient being, it can’t actually experience being observed. The closest thing to that is the artist - the person who brought their human ideas and emotions to life in the form of the artwork. Through their creation, the artist allows us to experience a piece of their inner world, even though the art itself can’t consciously feel or respond. So, in a sense we are “touching” the artist themselves.
Merleau-Ponty introduces a fascinating concept where he describes the artwork as putting “flesh” on the artist’s idea. This “flesh” is what transforms the artist’s imagination into something real, something we can experience in the three-dimensional world. Merleau-Ponty also talks about art as an intersection between the “touch” and the “touched,” or the “experience” and the “experienced.” This encounter, which we have through the form of the artwork, is carefully shaped by the artist. According to Merleau-Ponty, the artist’s ideas act as the “force” that molds this experience. In other words, the way the artist constructs and forms the piece directs us to catch a glimpse of the part of their mind where the artwork originates. Through their choices - whether it’s the materials, colors, or composition - the artist creates a pathway for us to engage with their thoughts and emotions. It’s like the artwork is a “clearing” into how they see and feel the world, offering us a unique, sensory experience of their inner vision.
But that’s only half the picture. Merleau-Ponty explains that the artist’s ideas must be lived in order to fully grasp the meaning of the artwork. It’s our own experience that allows us to “touch” the “touched,” or in other words, to truly understand the art. Part of the artist’s process is choosing an experience that’s familiar or relatable to all of us - something shared by humankind. By doing this, the artist creates a connection that helps communicate their vision to the viewer, making the artwork a bridge between the artist’s world and our own lived experiences.
If we consider the sculptures mentioned here, we can understand how the artists have drawn on common human experiences to make their pieces relatable. In the case of Read Reader, the sculpture reflects humanity’s universal experience of being a student, a learner. With Oblique Intersection, the opacity and blurred forms resonate with our shared understanding of how reality can often be unclear or hidden. Illuminated Arboreal Data Codes’s connection to nature suggests that communication itself is natural, flowing and evolving like nature does. And in Run, the way the sculpture is constructed communicates the idea of teamwork, with the cohesion of its parts symbolizing how individuals come together to create something larger than themselves. Through these pieces, the artists tap into experiences we all know, helping to bridge the gap between their ideas and our interpretation.
Once we understand the connection between the art and the viewer, a deeper understanding of the world - and of ourselves - begins to emerge. It’s incredible how all forms of art have the power to do this: to speak to something special within us, allowing us to reflect and gain new insights. Art has this unique ability to make us pause, think and discover fresh perspectives on life and the world around us.
So next time you encounter a piece of art, I encourage you to take a moment to really sit with it and meditate on what it’s saying to you. We shouldn’t let it become a cliche to ask, “What does this piece mean to me?” Engaging with art in this way can help us better understand the world, and even improve how we connect with others. Visit your local art museum, take in the experience, and walk away seeing the world a little differently than you did before.