Greetings from Blackpool, where holidaymakers come for the cabaret shows and omnipresent threat of street crime, and stay for the world’s largest kinetic sculptures. Known as Dune Grass, this quartet of superb seedpods are prominently positioned on the princely promenade. They measure an astonishing 35 metres from ravishing roots to gorgeous glass-fiber heads.
They say a picture plants a thousand words and, as you can see, Dune Grass represents nature spectacularly reclaiming a slice of the English coastline. Since being installed in 2011, they’re all anyone’s been stalking about!
These vine, upstanding members of the community, who truly are in a grass of their own, were designed by the talented nerds at FreeState Studio. They were tested in a wind tunnel to ensure they could withstand Blackpool’s notoriously inclement weather, and they’re obviously made of ferner stuff!
The blades bend and sway in the gentle breeze, providing the perfect je ne sais quoi to a day by the seaside. Each is the image of the others, so if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen stem all. Nevertheless, I’m very frond of them!
Cheer up, it’s not all dune and gloom
Though their minimalist curves stand at the apex of of contemporary sleekness, Dune Grass splendidly compliments the 19th-century Blackpool Tower, which looms nearby. These structures, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy, elegantly frame Blackpool’s Victorian-era architecture. They turn laneways into waking dreams, and fish ‘n’ chip shops into bastions of infinite possibilities.
Every teenage mother becomes a princess; every ruddy-faced factory worker in a knock-off England soccer shirt a handsome prince. Never before have four towering representations of marram grass so transformed an ailing Lancastrian resort town.
Serving as bookends to the legendary Big Bird and Big Parrot, Dune Grass has helped cement Blackpool’s status as a sparkling oasis for any admirer of the Bigs.
There’s something magical about climbing aboard a streetcar, incandescent in the inky night, and sailing past the grass. Ironically, I was doing just that when I bumped into my good friend, grizzled character actor Norman Reedus. We hugged; the bond formed between us on the set of Styrofoam Soul stronger than ever.
The Stalking Dead
“You know, Bigs,” the Hollywood heartthrob snarled in his trademark gutteral tone. “I came to Blackpool searching for a place to belong. Somewhere I could just fit in.”
“Because your name is Norman Reedus, and this place has enormous reeds?”
“Exactly, Bigs. You’re eminently aware that, like yourself, I’m a proponent of pithy wordplay. I couldn’t resist the bewitching opportunity to extend my dramatic range by posing as a sentient blade of grass, ensconced in the bosom of the of this legendary resort town.”
“What better way to shed your tough-guy visage and expose your vulnerable underbelly, Norman.”
Exhibiting the impeccable dramatic timing that has defined his career, Norman took a final drag of his cigar and then flicked the stub into the gutter.
“Quite, Bigs. I’ve spent the past few months staring silently out at the Irish Sea, dressed in black, bobbing my head a little, doing all I can to become a part of Dune Grass. But, finally, as I was being abused by a group of particularly unappealing chavs, I came to a realisation.”
“And what was that, Norman?”
“I need to stop trying to be the fifth member of Dune Grass,” he muttered, wiping a solitary tear from his craggy cheek, “and be the first Norman Reedus.”
Cradling Norman in my arms, I stroked his luxurious locks as he finally allowed himself to unleash decades of pent-up frustration, and was reduced to a blubbering mess.
I guess the grass isn’t always greener on the other side!
