When you hear about public art, it’s usually the monumental kind that attracts attention, like Mount Rushmore or the Statue of Liberty. The backdrops for these works might be bustling cities or magnificent landscapes, but public art, historically, has not found its way into the suburbs. It’s rarely a feature in shopping plazas or residential neighborhoods.

We enjoy stories with a beginning, a middle, and an end.  We especially like clear resolutions to mark the end of a story.  So, it’s no wonder that we’re itchy nearly two years later when the omicron variant has lengthened the COVID-19 story, and threatens re-entry to libraries, museums, theatres, restaurants, churches, schools, and sporting events. The omicron variant is at this time a law unto itself. 

Waves sneak up to the shore from nowhere. Mountains of water advance, attacking like a marauding army. Churning angry white foam, the King Tide has arrived on the north coast of Oregon. Water levels rise higher and tides grow stronger. Some tides crest far higher than others. Swell after swell, rising and falling, an ache and a sigh, reeking of salty spray. Sneaker waves suddenly smash against the beach with a boom like thunder. The power of water washing over us can take us on an unwanted ride far out to sea. Sudden fierce currents sweep victims away. Never turn your back to the ocean.