Say A Giant Goodbye To That Giant Head In Millennium Park
By Mae Rice in News on Dec 31, 2015 6:28PM
This weekend will be Chicago's last chance to contemplate Millennium Park’s giant, snow white head. Starting on Monday, the city will begin the process of disassembling it, according to the Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs and Special Events. It’s forecasted to take four days to fully remove; it’s 39 feet tall, after all.
Officially titled “Looking Into My Dreams, Awilda,” the head—a sculpture by Jaume Plensa, the same sculptor who designed Crown Fountain—was installed in Millennium Park in 2014, as a celebration of the park’s 10th anniversary.
Plensa made the sculpture by taking a 3D laser scan of the face of a real 9-year-old Dominican girl he met in Spain, he told the Tribune. He then manipulated (and, obviously, enlarged) the results. “I like the way that this girl suddenly resembles a flame or a candle as her head becomes stretched,” he said.
Though she now stands alone, Awilda was first installed along with three smaller brick heads, also designed by Plensa. This prompted the Chicago Reader to publish a piece under the iconically weird headline, “Four big, dreamy heads by Jaume Plensa take up residence in Millennium Park.”
Chicagoans have mixed feelings about the sculpture, though the locals I talked to overall leaned positive.
“She’s a beautiful symbol that you’re leaving the hubbub of the Loop… [for] a more meditative space,” said Kym Spilker, who leads Segway tours of Millennium Park for Absolutely Chicago Segway Tours. “It’s like a huge peaceful presence… trying to envelop the city.”
Chicago photographer Stephanie Bassos (full disclosure: an old coworker of mine) echoed Spilker’s enthusiasm. “It's haunting, yet calming and gives me a reassuring sense of peace and community. You can always tell a lot in a face, and this one is comforting.”
Spilker also noted that on her tours, the head can take unsuspecting tourists by surprise. “It’s kind of bizarre if you don’t know what it’s about. It’s a monster head… At the Halloween tours, we stop near there, and people say, ‘What the heck is that thing?’”
Our EIC Rachel Cromidas, who lives near Millennium Park, feels similarly spooked by it: “It stares you down while you're just trying to take Madison to the park.”
Not for much longer, though. Awilda’s headed to a new location next week, though the Department of Cultural Affairs doesn’t know where. Here's to hoping that wherever she goes, she looks as stunningly weird as she looked a few feet offshore at a Rio de Janeiro beach.