Though as of this writing it was still protected by a chain-link fence, local history was made last week when a 33-foot tall, 25-ton shining steel statue of a loon was completed on the corner of Snelling and University, one of St. Paul’s iconic intersections. Designed by famous Scottish sculptor Andy Scott — his largest work is The Kelpies, a pair of massive roadside horse heads — the silver loon is undeniably beautiful. Purchased for an undisclosed sum by former United Health CEO and MN United team owner Bill McGuire, the bird has sparked conversations in bars, barbers shops, and on Facebook pages.
Fear not, for I come not to condemn or praise the loon, but to ponder its existence. Though wary of its ill timing, I welcome the majestic new symbol of change. Despite the awkward provenance, the loon is at least a sign of hope.
To my ear, most people agree that the loon emerges at an inopportune time. When it debuted five years ago, the Allianz soccer stadium, home of the Minnesota United, bore with it the promise of transforming the “superblock,” a long-lasting asphalt albatross in the heart of St. Paul. (See my piece on the hopes for the area from nine years back.) City officials wanted the stadium to catalyze development around it, bringing street life and tax base to the underused street corner. Since its debut, however, there’s been nothing but a steady stream of purgatorial demolition.
For years, the neighborhood’s most profound sign of neglect has been the abandoned CVS Pharmacy, which shuttered its doors in 2022. The boarded up building (owned by a murky shell company) has increasingly attracted graffiti and illegal narcotics. The resulting disarray, compounded by ongoing concerns about light rail safety and consistent nuisance near supportive housing facilities, has led to people in the community selling homes or businesses, or avoiding coming within blocks of what should be a busy transit hub. (See for example the recent break-in at a beloved auto shop, or the recent Hamline-Midway meeting.)
The frayed nerves are one reason why a vocal anti-loon contingent views the sculpture as an insult added to the ongoing injury of neighborhood disinvestment. What the neighborhood really needs, they argue, are new businesses and housing, something to replace the vacant lots that continually fill with plastic trash, or worse. Instead, there’s a giant loon that nobody asked for, certainly not part of the years of community planning that went into the stadium site.
On the other hand, for others the loon augurs hope. It’s a beautiful sculpture that (at least technically) comes at no cost to the taxpayer. The common criticism that the project didn’t use local artists seems foolish to me, given the international stature of the loon’s sculptor. Having a majestic Andy Scott piece on a public corner links St. Paul to a global art community, similar to how Minneapolis boasts the work of James Turrell, Claes Oldenburg, or Frank Gehry. (Forging global relationships are one of the best things about soccer, after all.) Even if the loon is a vanity project, it’s a lovely one that, surrounded by new sidewalks, represents a meaningful investment. Don’t look a gift loon in the mouth, boosters argue.
I empathize with both of these points of view. Yet having followed the area’s site plans long before the soccer stadium was even a rumor, I view the area with a larger-picture lens. To me the loon is a sign of positive change, but it also reflects the one-way nature of how cities relate to wealth: the pension funds, investors, millionaires, and bankers that have always been both the beneficiaries and arbiters of American urban growth. For me, to gaze at the loon is to see the depth to which cities like St. Paul remain dependent on outside capital, eternally chasing down the benevolence of the 1%.
Four corners of history and symbolism
With the addition of loon, the corner of Snelling and University now displays a remarkable array of urban history, a whole range of economic development approaches reflecting the evolving subsidies and regulations of the city. The abandoned CVS store, a bad idea even when it was built, testifies to the era when lowest-common-denominator chain retail was welcome, one of the last buildings built before light rail zoning. Its abandonment illustrates the fruitlessness of depending on national retail chains for vitality, where entire buildings have become disposable.
On the Southwest corner, the 1980s Spruce Tree Center, a half-failed mixed-use urban shopping mall, was at the very least ambitious. Like the soccer stadium and its loon, it was the brainchild of an idiosyncratic investor who literally matched the building’s accent color to her favorite shade of lipstick. On the northeast corner, 1930s-era art deco Midway Bookstore still stands, a remnant of the bustling streetcar era that placed this corner at the center of town. Still in business selling obscure used books, the owner’s signs from a decade back railing against “Blight Rail” now seem, at the very least, mildly vindicated.
Farther back in time, the site where Allianz Field sits was once home to the streetcar machine shops of Thomas Lowry, one of Minneapolis’ richest men, whose anti-union fervor triggered St. Paul’s most notorious strike. Before that, the blocks stretching for a mile to the north and east were a literal playground for 19th century trading mogul “Commodore” Norman Kittson, who used the land to breed and race horses.
In other words, displays of wealth are not new to the neighborhood. As the loon gazes outward, a testament to elite tastes, it reminds me of the era of industrial barons, before cities boasted legitimate taxes or Federal support. As budgets dwindle again in the post-COVID climate, I fear that the temptation to turn to “public-private partnerships,” business-district privatization, or philanthropic noblesse will become increasingly irresistible.
This isn’t necessarily the case in other cities around the world, which often have more control over their own destinies. Vienna famously builds its publicly owned homes for a third of its urban population, rich and poor alike. Chinese regional governments are able to build entire subway systems in the time it takes the Twin Cities to complete one line to Eden Prairie. Around the world, the ability of cities to act varies widely, typically leaving U.S. urbanism far behind.
It would be nice if St. Paul had the means and ability to develop in a more democratic manner, according to transparent public values. It would be nice if the city could acquire key downtown parcels when they come up for sale, developing vacant land using its own resources instead of throwing subsidies at the rich. But in a country that’s barely fending off anti-urban revanchism, most every American city is dependent on capital, pension funds, and outside money. Mayors are given few choices but to embrace the lure of tax base, and given the alternatives, they are right to do so.
At least with the dawn of “United Village” there’s hope and vague accountability. The new playground next to the soccer stadium is my daughter’s favorite, full of parents and children every day. Meanwhile, for the neighborhood’s other landlords, the owners of the acres of empty big boxes and vacant lots, there’s little hope for change from either the market or seemingly hamstrung city inspectors.
Word on the street is that construction of the hotel, parking lot, and restaurant buildings will begin in the spring. Years from now, I hope that the silver steel loon will have watched the neighborhood rise as windows get unboarded and people return to the sidewalks.
If housing, tax base, and street life follow in its wake, the loon will grow on even its grouchiest critics.
All this is to say that the new loon is beautiful, and I bask in its majestic sheen. I wish its migration had been more democratic, less plopped down out of wealthy benevolence as growing up from community needs. But at the very least it’s superior to the post-apocalyptic abandoned pharmacy, or the acres of vacant strip malls stretching out to the east. Go check it out, and imagine a better future.
Bill Lindeke is a lecturer in Urban Studies at the University of Minnesota’s Department of Geography, Environment and Society. He is the author of multiple books on Twin Cities culture and history, most recently St. Paul: an Urban Biography. Follow Bill on Twitter: @BillLindeke.
