From the Chicago Tribune:  August 15, 1967

Mayor Richard J. Daley unveils the Picasso "with the belief that what is strange to us today will be familiar tomorrow." The sculpture celebrated art rather than civic achievement.

Just after noon, Mayor Richard J. Daley pulled a cord attached to 1,200 square feet of blue-green fabric, unwrapping a gift "to the people of Chicago" from an artist who had never visited--and had shown no previous interest in--the city.

The artist was Pablo Picasso, who at age 85 had dominated Western art for more than half a century.  He had been approached by William E. Hartmann, senior partner of Skidmore, Owings and Merrill, one of the architectural firms collaborating on Chicago's new Civic Center; Hartmann wanted a sculpture for the plaza bordered by Washington, Randolph, Dearborn and Clark Streets.

The architect visited Picasso at his home in southern France, presenting several gifts (including a Sioux war bonnet and a White Sox blazer) plus a check for $100,000 from the Chicago Public Building Commission.  Picasso responded not with an original design but one from the early 1960s that he modified, combining motifs from as far back as the start of the century.

The result was a forty-two-inch maquette, or model, for a sculpture made of Cor-Ten steel, the same material used on the Civic Center building.  The American Bridge division of U.S. Steel in Gary, Indiana, translated the maquette into a piece that weighed 162 tons and rose to a height of 50 feet.  It was the first monumental outdoor Picasso in North America.

Daley said at the unveiling: "We dedicate this celebrated work this morning with the belief that what is strange to us today will be familiar tomorrow."

The process of familiarization brought trouble.  Picasso's untitled sculpture proclaimed metamorphosis the chief business of an artist by crossing images of an Afghan dog and a woman.  However, the effort at first did not count for much, in part because Chicago's earlier monuments--statues of past leaders--commemorated a different idea: civic achievement.

Col. Jack Reilly, the mayor's director of special events, immediately urged removal of the sculpture. Ald. John J. Hoellen went further, recommending that the City Council "deport" the piece and construct in its place a statue of "Mr. Cub . . . Ernie Banks."

In 1970, a federal judge ruled that since the full-size sculpture was technically a copy of the maquette, it could not be copyrighted.  This opened the way to countless reproductions that bred familiarity, the first step toward love.  The name-brand quality of the sculpture inspired other commissions--from Alexander Calder, Marc Chagall, Joan Miro, Claes Oldenburg, Henry Moore--that found easier acceptance among Chicagoans.  As much as the Water Tower, the Picasso became a symbol of the city.

This article was written by the famed Mike Royko of the Chicago Sun-Times, and appeared on August 16, 1967.  It provides amazing insights of life in the city during that time, and features the then-mayor of Chicago, Richard J. Daley.

Picasso and the Cultural Rebirth of Chicago

Mayor Daley walked to the white piece of ribbon and put his hand on it. He was about to give it a pull when the photographers yelled for him to wait. He stood there for a minute and gave them that familiar blend of scowl and smile.


It was good that he waited. This was a moment to think about, to savor what was about to happen.  In just a moment, with a snap of the mayor's wrist, Chicago history would be changed.  That's no small occurrence - the cultural rebirth of a big city.


Out there in the neighborhoods and the suburbs, things probably seemed just the same. People worried about the old things - would they move in and would we move out?  Or would we move in and would they move out?


But downtown, the leaders of culture and influence were gathered for a historical event and it was reaching a climax with Mayor Daley standing there ready to pull a ribbon.


Thousands waited in and around the Civic Center plaza.  They had listened to the speeches about the Picasso thing. They had heard how it was going to change Chicago's image.  They had heard three clergymen - a priest, a rabbi, and a Protestant minister - offer eloquent prayers.  That's probably a record for a work by Picasso, a dedicated atheist.


And now the mayor was standing there, ready to pull the ribbon.  You could tell it was a big event by the seating. In the first row on the speakers platform was a lady poet. In the second row was Alderman Tom Keane, and in the third row was P. J. Cullerton, the assessor.  When Keane and Cullerton sit behind a lady poet, things are changing.


The only alderman in the front row was Tom Rosenberg, and he was there only because it was a cultural event and he is chairman of the City Council's Culture Committee, which is in charge of preventing aldermen from spitting, swearing, and snoring during meetings.


The whole thing had been somber and serious.  The Chicago Symphony Orchestra had played classical music.  It hadn't played even one chorus of  "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."   Chief Judge John Boyle had said the Picasso would become more famous than the Art Institute's lions.  Boyle has vision.


Someone from the National Council of Arts said it was paying tribute to Mayor Daley.  This brought an interested gleam in the eyes of a few ward committeemen.  William Hartmann, the man who thought of the whole thing, told of Picasso's respect for Mayor Daley.  Whenever Hartmann went to see Picasso, the artist asked:  "Is Mayor Daley still mayor of Chicago?"   When Hartmann said this, Mayor Daley bounced up and down in his chair, he laughed so hard.  So did a few Republicans in the cheap seats, but they didn't laugh the same way.


After the ceremony, it came to that final moment the mayor standing there holding the white ribbon.   Then he pulled.


There was a gasp as the light blue covering fell away in several pieces.  But it was caused by the basic American fascination for any mechanical feat that goes off as planned.   In an instant the Picasso stood there unveiled for all to see.


A few people applauded.  But at best, it was a smattering of applause.   Most of the throng was silent.   They had hoped, you see, that it would be what they had heard it would be.


A woman, maybe.  A beautiful soaring woman.  That is what many art experts and enthusiasts had promised.  They had said that we should wait that we should not believe what we saw in the pictures.  If it was a woman, then the art experts should put away their books and spend more time in girlie joints.


The silence grew.  Then people turned and looked at each other.  Some shrugged.  Some smiled.  Some just stood there, frowning or blank-faced.  Most just turned and walked away.  The weakest pinch-hitter on the Cubs receives more cheers.


They had wanted to be moved by it.  They wouldn't have stood there if they didn't want to believe what they had been told - that it would be a fine thing.  But anyone who didn't have a closed mind, which means thinking that anything with the name Picasso connected must be wonderful, could see that it was nothing but a big, homely metal thing.


That is all there is to it.  Some soaring lines, yes.  Interesting design, I'm sure. But the fact is, it has a long stupid face and looks like some giant insect that is about to eat a smaller, weaker insect. It has eyes that are pitiless, cold, mean.


But why not?  Everybody said it had the spirit of Chicago.  And from thousands of miles away, accidentally or on purpose, Picasso captured it.  Up there in that ugly face is the spirit of Al Capone, the Summerdale scandal cops, the settlers who took the Indians but good.  Its eyes are like the eyes of every slum owner who made a buck off the small and weak.  And of every building inspector who took a wad from a slum owner to make it all possible.


It has the look of the dope pusher and of the syndicate technician as he looks for just the right wire to splice the bomb to.  Any bigtime real estate operator will be able to look into the face of the Picasso and see the spirit that makes the city's rebuilding possible and profitable.  It has the look of the big corporate executive who comes face to face with the reality of how much water pollution his company is responsible for and then thinks of the profit and loss and of his salary.


It is all there in that Picasso thing, the "I Will" spirit.  The "I will get you before you will get me" spirit.   Picasso has never been here, they say.  You'd think he's been riding the L all his life.

Copyright notice: Excerpted from One More Time: The Best of Mike Royko by Mike Royko, published by the University of Chicago Press. ¿ 1999 by the University of Chicago. All rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of U.S. copyright law, and it may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that this entire notice, including copyright information, is carried and no fee is charged for access. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the consent of the University of Chicago Press.