A roomful of dirt and a lesson in perspective

Last week, we learned that a gentleman named Bill Dilworth had passed away at age 70. His name may not be familiar, but for nearly three decades, Dilworth was the caretaker of The New York Earth Room, a modern art installation by Walter De Maria that has quietly occupied a loft in SoHo since 1977.

The Earth Room is exactly what it sounds like: a 3,600-square-foot loft filled with 250 cubic yards of plain brown dirt, spread wall to wall to a depth of 22 inches. It is separated from the polished wood entryway by a glass barricade and preserved by the Dia Art Foundation as a permanent exhibit. The room is painted stark white, its silence and stillness described as “meditative.” De Maria’s goal, we’re told, was to challenge conventional notions of art and space—to encourage viewers to slow down and contemplate their surroundings.

Where does one begin? Perhaps with a combination of surprise and admiration for any artwork—especially one of such whimsy—to endure, unaltered, for nearly 50 years. In a world where art can be as fleeting as a duct-taped banana—like Maurizio Cattelan’s Comedian, which sold for millions before being eaten by its purchaser as performance art—we tip our hats to the Earth Room’s improbable longevity.

Because we are human and because we participate daily in an ag-driven economy, the greater temptation is to make fun of what we don’t understand–and there is no shortage of material here.

We might note, with pride and amusement, that we’ve had installations like this since the Homestead Act of 1862. While SoHo hipsters pay to see dirt, we just call that Tuesday. We might even ask whether this is truly art, or simply the aftermath of a bad day with a front-end loader. Of course, we might also suggest that we already host our own famous installation—Carhenge—because out here, we have dirt to spare.

There is, however, a deeper truth beneath the laughter. In this part of the country, many of us are still on the farm—or not many generations removed from it. The idea that dirt could be a novelty or an object of artistic reverence, is foreign to us. Yet in that very foreignness lies something worth considering.

The Earth Room reminds us, in its own strange way, of the vast range of experiences our country contains. What is ordinary to one person can be a revelation to another. Those differences—of background, of lifestyle, of what we call “normal”—shape our values and our politics in profound ways.

The next time we’re tempted to dismiss an urban perspective we don’t understand, or to be outraged by a cultural position that seems alien, we might remember this: those are the people who pay to see dirt. They are not villains, just people with very different life experiences—and those differences explain more than we often give them credit for.

Finally, as the stewardship of the Earth Room passes to a new generation, we wish them well. As Nebraskans, however, one question remains: Should someone warn them about the inheritance tax on dirt?