EGG KEEPER

Sculpture conservator Tracy Power dabs a little paint thinner on a cotton rag and rubs at the black streaks on the base of Bookhead, the Robert Arneson Egghead sculpture in front of the library. Scuffs from someone's shoe, she surmises.

The oversized acrylic-on-bronze sculpture has already been washed with soap and water and scrubbed with an assortment of brushes. Still to come is a little touch-up of the paint along the base's edge, which has been chipped by skateboarders, and a reapplication of protective wax.

This is one of Power's biannual trips to campus to care for the sculptures. During her two-day visit, all seven of the egg-shaped heads will be cleaned, repaired and their current state documented.

She'll deal with the dings from lawnmowers on the law school's See No Evil/Hear No Evil heads, with the scratches from the buttons and buckles of the children who play on Yin & Yang in front of the fine arts complex. She'll clean the drain holes in the nose of Eye on Mrak.

And during the rest of the year, she'll be on call to come and try to undo the damage that occurs periodically from the merry pranksters who decorate the Eggheads, painting them as Easter eggs, adorning them with frying pan and a side of bacon, or adding a hat or eye patch or nose ring.

It's a never-ending job to keep the Eggheads in their original state because they--like no other sculpture on campus, or most anywhere--are so tempting to touch, so inviting of interaction. The heads are rubbed and climbed and sat on and slid down. Ears are stroked, noses are explored and their smooth off-white surface is caressed. They serve as a backrest for students who are studying and as backdrop for tourists taking pictures. Students, on their way to finals from the library, touch Bookhead for luck. The Eggheads are an integral part of the campus character, as familiar a symbol as the water towers.

But the affection comes at a cost. Complete restoration is never possible, Power will tell you. The paint she uses to fill in the scratches and gouges darkens slightly over the months, so a shadow of the damage always returns. A vandal's red paint could not be completely removed from See No Evil/Hear No Evil and left a pink tinge. The strings that have been used to hold on hats and beards have cut into the finish. This public interaction ages them every time.

But a question always to consider, points out Power, is artist intent. Henry Moore, she'll tell you, loved the way his sculptures aged in the countryside, particularly a piece that was frequently rubbed by sheep, acquiring a lanolin-and-wool-polished finish. What would Arneson think?

It's easy to imagine that he, a merry prankster himself, would be amused by the interaction. "You've got to goof off in art; you've got to play," he once said. He would surely be pleased that the play continues. He would surely appreciate, too, the duality of the situation: the destruction from creation, the hurt from love. Duality was an overarching theme of the Eggheads themselves, as they explore the artist vs. academy, passivity vs. aggression, the bookworm vs. the dreamer, the yin and the yang of the institution and of life.

Of course, Arneson might also very well share Power's desire "to get my hands on someone named Ian"--who scratched his name into Yin (or is it Yang?). Arneson would undoubtedly want his work to last, unharmed, for many generations of students to come.

And he would surely agree with the young man who approached Power as she worked on Bookhead, and said simply, "Thanks. Thanks for taking care of them."

— Teri Bachman, M.A. '82

BONJOUR DAVIS

I came out of the Paris Metro station, stopped to get my bearings and then began surveying the architecture of one of the world's most beautiful cities. Over there was Les Halles; there, the colored plumbing of the Pompidou Center and the tip of the Eiffel Tower; the gardens of St. Eustache, the ... wait a minute. What was that? I had glimpsed a curved shape that looked like a form I knew well, but surely I was mistaken. It couldn't be. I moved forward until I stood in front of it. Usually I try not to look like a tourist. I don't crane my neck at skyscrapers. I don't take photographs of every "cute" object, building, person and animal. This time, however, I gawked in disbelief.

Six thousand miles from Davis, in the city known for elegance and sophistication, there is a huge sculpture that looks exactly like an egg with a face.

Located by the medieval church of St. Eustache, the work sits in a plaza filled during the day by business people on break, skateboarders and vagrants. In vain, I searched the area for a plaque or information about the sculpture. Finally, I stopped someone who looked like a local. Although I wanted to ask "Do you know anything about this work of art, the artist or why it is here?," in my simple French I could only manage, "What is this?" He looked at me and said, "C'est un oeuf." It's an egg. Then he walked away.

St. Eustache is next to Les Halles, a historic marketplace where people have been buying and selling produce for centuries. Perhaps the egg shape refers to this tradition; however, I didn't see any other pieces. There were no banana or apple faces lying around.

Travel changes your perspective. You see your home from a different angle. I have always loved the UC Davis Eggheads, but I had thought they were unique to the campus. In Paris, I was stunned to realize that there may be similar sculptures elsewhere.

Furthermore, I had always considered the Davis eggs as isolated beings. Each seems to be in its own world. The one outside of Shields reads its book. The one in front of Mrak bemoans its failed suicide attempt. Yet perhaps they are only that way during the day, when people are around. At night, they may gather in the Quad, roll along the bike paths together or call out to one another and talk about their days. Occasionally, they may even mention their Parisian cousin and how they would like to visit someday.

The Paris sculpture is different from those at UC Davis in that it has a matching hand on the ground nearby. Although one fears some brutal dismemberment has occurred and the other parts have been lost, the expression on the face is neither agonized nor depressed. Its thoughts seem elsewhere. Perhaps it also thinks about its relatives across the sea.

I like to imagine that the face by St. Eustache is turned toward the west, toward Davis. If you stood there long enough and watched closely, you might even be able to see the hand move in an almost imperceptible wave, and if you listened very carefully, you might be able to hear the egg say, "Bonjour, Davees, bonjour."

— Joseph Mills, Ph.D. '98