MESSAGE FROM
Lyman Hafen Honorary Chair
What is Most Important
A little more than three years ago, on Sunday night, January 9, 2005, the Santa Clara and Virgin Rivers began to swell. As a result of unusual snowpack and melting rains across the river drainages, the two characteristically slow and serene streams transformed into monsters. The Santa Clara’s normal January trickle of five cubic feet per second multiplied exponentially in a matter of hours to more than 6,500 cubic feet per second. Over the next few days, no one could have imagined the volume of water, the magnitude of power, or the intensity of horror that would be generated as this perfect storm played out. Just after mid-day on Tuesday, January 11, the raging Santa Clara finished undercutting the bank beneath a new home, then swallowed it up and swept it downstream in a heartless act that would be repeated many times during the next several hours. By Wednesday, more than 50 families in the Santa Clara-St. George area had either watched their homes disappear in the muddy torrent, or were displaced as their homes were rendered uninhabitable by the flood.
In the mean time, southern Utah citizens rallied to the aid of their neighbors in a miraculous outpouring of concern, service and relief. Mayors, city councils, county commissioners, professional first responders, church leaders and legions of neighborhood volunteers fell into action with the kind of intense spirit that is almost impossible to define. Their efforts continued not only through the several days of flooding, but for many weeks thereafter as the needs of flood victims were seen to in every detail. In the end, this terrible tragedy, reminiscent in many ways of the historic flood of 1862 that devastated the fledgling settlements in southwestern Utah, became a modern symbol of the magnificent Dixie Spirit. A host of heroes emerged from the tragedy, some whose names will never be known. The flood washed many precious treasures down the river, but in the process it exposed the true gems of this community – its people, oldtimers and newcomers, young and old, who make this one of the best places on earth to live.
A fitting way to commemorate the spirit and character of a people is through fine art. Today we are introducing a wonderful collection of art, a new series of fine sculptures in St. George’s Art Around the Corner project. And we will unveil a most wonderful permanent work of art in this plaza that captures the essence of those tragic but ultimately triumphant days in January of 2005. Annette Averett’s sculpture, The Sandman, enshrines that spirit in a work that will stand in this square for generations to come as a reminder of how the community rallied during those difficult days. It aptly honors all those heroes whose names will never be known.
For me, art is best defined as that which conveys truth. The truth of those gloomy January days in 2005 was evident in the distressed eyes of the flood victims, in the competent hands of the professionals who responded, and in the compassionate hearts of the hundreds of volunteers who came from every direction to aid their neighbors.
One thing the flood caused all of us to do was to consider what is most important in our lives. As we heard the stories of victims who had only minutes to salvage what was most important, we, too, were compelled to consider what we would save if given only moments to decide. The answers to that question were compelling. All of a sudden, a beautiful dining room set meant nothing in the larger scheme of things. In an instant it was people, more than things, that mattered most; it was those precious relationships with loved ones and friends and even neighbors you had never met. It was things that might have only moments earlier seemed simple or trivial, like photos, letters, journals or small talismans representing special events in our lives. Suddenly it was those very simple things that took on the most profound meaning as we realized how quickly and easily they could disappear, and how they could never be replaced.
This exercise of identifying what is most important is a process the artist deals with constantly. When your task is to convey truth on a two-foot square canvas, or in fifty pounds of sculpting clay, or with a thousand words on paper, you are compelled to cut straight to the essence. Anything superfluous must be swept aside, all chaff cut away, the hubris disposed of. Only that with true meaning can be retained; the rest must be abandoned to wash down the river in the flood. What is left is truth. What remains is art.
The flood of 2005 left us with a searingly clear and simple picture of who we are as a people. It was a good picture. One we should look at and ponder often. This fine sculpture, this perfectly simple work of art, will remind us for years to come of the truth that was exposed during those momentous days when we all learned what was most important.
