Do Dogs and Pigeons Like Art?
Animal brains are musical and visual, says Temple Grandin. Some human artists take note.
Pigeons can tell the difference between a Monet and a Picasso, according to Dr. Temple Grandin, the author and professor of animal sciences known for peering into the souls of cattle and other species.
Likewise, the hundreds of canines who brought their human companions to Laurie Anderson's "Music for Dogs" concert at the Sydney Opera House recently were genuinely moved to the point of howling and tail wagging. Anderson, who composed the pieces in honor of her beloved rat terrier, Lollabelle, wanted the dogs to enjoy the music - composed primarily of sounds not discernable to the human ear.
"There is a connection between animals and music," says Grandin. It's not hooey."
Music, a language with structures understood by birds, whales and humans, to name just a few of the musical species, predates mankind, researchers now believe. And it's not just pigeons that are visually gifted, either. Many animals can discern patterns with amazing skill. "Musical and visual thinking, that's the world animals live in," Grandin says.
Now, a number of human artists are exploring creative expression for -- and by -- animals.
Head over to the Presidio in San Francisco, where 11 artists in the show "Presidio Habitats" (through May 2011) have gone to work for "animal clients," -- species that share, or used to share, the spectacular landscape with the Mission Revival military architecture, joggers and cyclists.
Scattered across groves of eucalyptus, grassy meadows and botanical gardens in a hilly section tucked back from the Bay, the artworks include cozy homes for animal patrons.
The Animal Estates Stag Tower by Fritz Haeg is a tall narrow rock and wood home for six clients who would "otherwise live in a dead tree." It contains "louvered crevices for the Yuma Myotis bat, cover logs for the California Slender Salamander" and other architectural features that Haeg says the animals may or may not choose to occupy.
Haeg created a giant eagle's nest for the Whitney Museum in New York for that institution's 2008 biennial - bald eagles were known to flourish in that part of Manhattan previously - and it never had an animal occupant. But the empty nest was much photographed.
An architect by training, Haeg isn't merely interested in making visitors think about environmental issues - although his work accomplishes that very powerfully. He's also interested in learning from animal architecture itself.
He's raved to me about the complexity of termite towers, which must shelter millions of insects and keep the temperature within just a few degrees to prevent their death. "If you look at these animals, they've been evolving their architecture for millions of years."
People, however, "threw out the book 150 years ago and quit responding to local conditions," Haeg said. "Now architects are trying to pick that back up."
Jonathon Keats, who has been unleashing his "thought experiments" on the Bay Area for some time now, has been doing a lot of art for other species of late. After making gritty black-and-white porn flicks depicting pollination for an audience of house plants in Chico, he's moved on to travel videos for potted plants - which, he posits, are especially entertaining to root-bound species with limited locomotive abilities. Keats also choreographed a ballet for honeybees in San Francisco, with hives of insects and strategically placed native flowers that he hoped would inspire the bees to move in ways that were pleasing to the bees, rather than a human audience.
He’s even helped Cypress trees create their own art. For a show in Georgia, Keats strapped drawing pencils to the trees’ limbs in reach of easels. So far, his desire to create a new market for “outsider” art made by the Cypresses hasn’t caught on, but “they were incredibly prolific,” he said.
Like Haeg, who loathes the idea of animals as props, Keats wants only voluntary participation. "I'm simply suggesting this choreography. I would never demand anything of them," Keats told me. "And they're not paid performers so there's no question of release forms. If they choose to perform, it's in their hives."
When I asked Cheryl Haines, executive director of the FOR-SITE Foundation, which curated Presidio Habitats, about the appeal of art and animals, she connected it to the current interest in place-based, site-specific art.
I agree that's part of it. But then there's the YouTube video of Snowball, the dancing cockatoo. "Did you see it?" Grandin asked me. "Go to your computer right now and look it up. Scientists studied that video and found that the bird is definitely dancing to the music."
Snowball's brain is feeling the Back Street Boys.
Grandin's theme in her talk at the TED Conference in January was the need for "all kinds of minds." "In the normal human mind, language covers up the visual thinking we share with animals," she said. But different sorts of thinkers, such as Grandin, who is autistic and describes herself as a "literal visual thinker," may be able to bridge that gap.
Some fascinating art will do doubt be produced in the process.
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