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The tree-lined working class neighborhood is quietly unremarkable. As is the small red house situated a few blocks from the Mississippi River just south of the former Old Style brewery in downtown La Crosse. Paul J. Hefti transformed this nondescript spot into a visual oasis. His brother, Leo, insisted that the yard outside the house be kept as “plain as can be” because he didn’t want to attract attention. The day Leo died, Paul put out a bicycle-wheel and plastic-bottle whirligig. That was in 1986 and he had recently retired from the box factory where he’d worked for 45 years. Now the red house is encircled by Paul’s assemblage-sculptures made from plastic pop bottles and the detritus that comes his way. He mows the lawn and makes new sculptures in his shed. Between the wind and night time thefts, it is a continual process.
The ubiquitous plastic pop bottle, central to Paul’s creations, was invented in 1973 by DuPont chemist Nathaniel Wyeth (the artist Andrew’s brother). Wyeth tried 10,000 times before he came up with a plastic bottle strong enough to withstand the pressure of a carbonated beverage. This technological marvel has made its way into everyday life and Paul’s yard in a substantial way. People come from all over the world to see his yard. He gives three hour tours punctuated with love songs and limericks. He asks for nothing in return, except maybe a hug and the promise of another visit. “Are you here for the tour?” he asks as visitors approach the gate. He disappears into the house to get his hat. He takes opinion polls as the tour goes along. “What do you think of this color? Is it okay?” or “Do you like this one better than that?” or “Which is your favorite?” He tinkers on the yard continually. Areas are set up specifically as photo ops. He has albums of color snapshots sent to him by visitors. “People like it,” he says, and that is enough. On the tour, he points out his “fans” (fan propellers hanging from trees), the “p-dish” for serving peanuts, pop corn, pretzels and potato chips (a spinning contraption with four green bottles fastened to a rotating hub), the “cry baby” for watering plants (a two-liter bottle with a face painted on it, a hole poked beneath each eye, and filled with water) and “funny faces” painted in colors representing various nationalities (five gallon bucket lids hung by clothes line from tree branches). At the end he brings out a cardboard box of funnels, cookie cutters, goblets and birdhouses he’s fashioned from two liter bottles. Paul’s lived in this place his entire life. Inside, the walls are painted yellow and the furnishings and appliances are early 20th century. There’s a small radio, but no TV. He has a Casio keyboard and played us haunting improvisations based on a Bicycle Built for Two. Remnants of his childhood continually surface, particularly 1920s Eddie Cantoresque Whoopee culture references. He likes vegetables, which he buys at the nearby People’s Co-op, cake, and Kemp’s ice cream by the gallon. He rides his bicycle five miles a day to do errands. He never owned a car. He doesn’t use his telephone. His vision is dimming so he can’t see well enough to read his mail. The best way to communicate with him is to go to his front gate. It’s all wacky and childlike, seemingly escaping the oppression of mortality, human conflict, and injustice that exists beyond the plush-toy covered wire fence. But the ephemeral-quality of his yard betrays any potential for liberation from life’s injustices. The hand-painted plastic bottles and colorful lithographed cardboard panels fade almost immediately. As they slowly grow lifeless, Paul remodels them into subsequent displays. Each incarnation is slightly less ambitious as his energy wanes. It is in this fragility where the true beauty lies. Click HERE to Close This Window |