If it did, though, it might soon be as taken for granted as the bridge was before the wrapping, as some of our greatest artworks are, simply because there is no doubt they will always be there. It takes some courage to admit that works of art are finite. We have already had the somewhat comical spectacle of restorers gluing cigarette butts back onto Jackson Pollack's canvases. But the temporary lifespan of Christo's projects, and the fact that they are subject to the ravages of nature, is a way of emphasizing that art is not just objects, but a means of affecting emotion and thought. Perhaps the knowledge that Christo's art is temporary sharpens our perceptions, in the same way they're sharpened when we're storing our sense memory of places we're not likely to return to.
Photos can capture only bits of the ever-changing installations.
Film, the most transitory art form, being nothing more than shadows and light projected on a screen, is able to show the transforming effect of the elements on the works. I said that Christo's projects were gestures, and they are, with everything fleeting that word implies. There's no reason the experience of them need be fleeting. Being able to say you brought some grace to the world seems to me about as good a legacy as any artist could ask for. Charles Taylor is a Salon contributing writer.