The Earth Room

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In a way, the Earth Room feels a bit like a design conjecture. What if there was a room full of dirt in the middle of New York City? It’s random, it’s odd, and something maybe more surprising than stumbling upon a room full of dirt, is the fact that there’s quite a lot to be said about a pile of dirt.

First off, the dirt still needs to be taken care of. Even isolated from the elements and human footprint, the dirt still finds a way to change.

How can we remind visitors to Ohio’s state parks that even when environments are in a state of conservation/preservation, they are not static amenities?

Second, I find it funny that one of the past caretakers remarked that people will take handfuls of the dirt as a souvenir. This is likely a joke, and for those that haven’t been to the dirt room this might seem preposterous. Unlike artwork you would see exhibited in a museum, there’s no security guards looming in the corners keeping a watchful eye on the dirt. The service desk is completely out of sightline. As far as I could tell when I visited, there are no cameras. One of the artist’s requests is that no pictures be taken of the work, but there’s no glaring red sign strictly enforcing the request. When it’s just you and the dirt, you can make a choice. Although I’m sure some people do break the rules, the lack of security measures makes me think people do in reality respect the dirt.

What conditions would have to be set in order for Ohio state park visitors to refrain from disturbing the environment with limited signage and enforcement?

Lastly, the Earth Room‘s location adds a layer of tension to the work. It doesn’t exactly fit in amongst the high-end luxury retail shops of SoHo. While there’s no signage in the eye-catching store fronts telling the common folk of lower tax brackets to stay away, there’s no avoiding the discomfort of entering and taking up space within those shops. In contrast, the Earth Room is an out of the ordinary attraction hidden in plain sight. Its only landmark being a simple plaque on the interior of a door frame. It is a space you are welcomed into by invitation over a digital interface. You could easily walk up to the room, take in the sight, and walk out without interacting with a single person. Meanwhile, on the floor above you, someone might be milling around in their million dollar luxury apartment. Yet, something about the experience of entering the building to look at a pile of dirt seems to cancel out this hierarchy.

How might visitors be influenced to perceive the environments of state parks as worthy of high appraisal, while still maintaining a feeling of approachability?