By Desi Isaacson
I knew before I arrived at Overton Park that a golf course could be art. I had seen it, tried to understand it, been stumped by it the same way we all are when we stand and stare at a painting in a museum. There have been a few courses I’ve played where I could feel the same sense of awe I get when I read a novel I love.
I came to Overton Park in part because I wanted to see it and do it, but I think mainly because I wanted to understand it. When I saw photos of Sweetens Cove, I thought the place looked fascinating, but didn’t fully get it. Then when I played it, I had that innate feeling that it was over that threshold of just being an object. Like Duchamp’s “Fountain” is more than a toilet or Malevich’s “Black Square” is more than a – well, a black square.
And so the same part of me that reads Philip Roth’s “American Pastoral,” or Zadie Smith’s “White Teeth” and doesn’t just want to consume novels, but wants to write novels came out. I didn’t want to spend my whole life playing golf; I wanted, if only once, to make it. I wanted to be the artist.
That might sound self-aggrandizing, and maybe it is to an extent. I knew coming here that I was not the architect and that I was not making the plan. That would be Rob and Tad. I knew I wasn’t one of the shapers moving the dirt into the shape of golf holes, that would be Trevor, Lucas, John, and Marc. I wouldn’t be left in charge of anything important. I would be doing the tasks that no one else wanted to do. And I was fine with that. Because guess what? Someone has to put up silt fence, or the course doesn’t get made. Someone has to keep filling up the bulldozers with diesel, or the course doesn’t get made. Someone has to cut down trees and move the limbs to bury pits, or the course doesn’t get made. I’m not holding the paintbrush; I’m merely restocking the pallet with fresh colors whenever Monet or Picasso or Pollack needs it. And like any of their assistants, my name probably will not appear anywhere when the course is finished, and people won’t know that I helped. I might not even be able to point at a bunker or mound and say, “See that spot? I shaped that, I dug that, I put that there.”
It is rare when we get to see great artists live at work. I never got to watch E.M. Forster write a first draft, or see Rembrandt outline his next piece. But here, in measly old Overton Park, I get to watch. And I had no idea it would be this cool.
I knew the finished product had the potential to be art, but I had not considered or realized the talent, the true grace and beauty of the massive machines at work.
While I’m here, I’m living in a house with three other members of the team, one of them being a shaper named Lucas Beasley. Lucas is from Florida, wears lots of camo, baggy jeans, likes to hunt when he can, swears a lot, smokes a lot of cigarettes, drinks a lot of iced tea, drives a pickup truck, has rarely ever played golf and doesn’t have much interest in it, and likes when people call him “Pops.”
Lucas Beasley is an artist. The first time I saw Lucas get in an excavator, it was like watching a master hold the paintbrush in hand, lightly, as if they were more comfortable holding it than not. The joysticks and levers and peddles of the excavator became extensions of Lucas. The levels of separation between Lucas’s hands and the excavator bucket melted away. There seemed to be no delay or pause between where he wanted the excavator bucket to move, and it moving that way, as if it was just another limb. Like taking another step.
That’s not what it looks like when I drive a skid steer. You can see my brain thinking of the next movement my hands need to make to then make the skid steer move the correct way. It is a machine that I’m controlling, but am not in control of. But Lucas, Lucas becomes the machine. He sits down in the seat, flings down the red safety switch, and it all melds into one thing. There is just one big machine working in harmony. I wonder if Lucas has ever thought of himself as an artist.
Like an artist, Lucas has his own distinct style. Comparable to outside the machine, he is a bit rambunctious, not worried about ruffling some feathers, or making a bit of a mess to clean up after. That can frustrate some of the others at times, but doesn’t every great artist get on some people’s nerves? He loves sitting up in those big yellow machines. He says as he grew up the only thing that changed is his toys got bigger. He’s still just playing in the dirt.
Compare his style to Trevor Dormer, another shaper on site. Trevor is slower and methodical with pinpoint precision. He cares deeply about golf and architecture and history. He will research sites, eras, and architects before showing up at a project. He is constantly thinking about his personal tendencies in the bulldozer and how to not fall into the same patterns each time. You can see all of this in how he moves, the patience. But still the bulldozer does not overpower him. He is in control of exactly where that blade is and how much dirt he is moving with each stroke.
There is no mistaking it, watching Trevor, or anyone else on the team in their machines is watching art in motion. From a distance the bulldozers or excavator movements look slow, dull. They have to move so much dirt to make a noticeable difference that watching can get boring. But now that I know what’s going on, now that I’ve put my hands on the controls and seen how hard it is, I have an appreciation I never had before.
I’ve read a lot about golf architects and how these places become reality. But there was always something missing. I would find myself asking the same question I do when I read or hear authors talk about writing. “Ok but how does it happen?” How do all these theories and rules and principles and ideas turn into a golf course?
I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I still don’t see or understand the full picture, but I think I’m getting closer. The collaboration makes more sense to me than it did. I can start to see now how the dirt gets moved to create golf.
I listen in on conversations between Rob, Tad, and their shapers like Trevor, and I still can’t understand or visualize what they are saying to each other most of the time. Maybe that’s the next missing link in the process for me to figure out. I had a general idea that what shapers did was creative. I had no idea that watching them shape, watching them control bulky machinery, would be art in and of itself.
The shapers make the whole thing look so easy, though I know from only moments behind the controls that it is anything but. Watching them create makes me want to give it a shot. I want to create, not just consume.
Maybe that will come later in the project. For now, I’m excited each day to see what they come up with and how they make it a reality. The people of Overton Park don’t know how lucky they are just yet.
Desi Isaacson is a writer originally from Maine who recently graduated from Washington University in St. Louis. He is currently interning for King-Collins to get an inside perspective at how golf courses are built. You can find more of his writing at desiisaacson.wordpress.com or email him at desiisaacson@gmail.com.
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