Wall Street Journal .  (Eastern edition).

New York, N.Y.: Feb 26, 2002 .  pg. A.22

This Public Art Gives Paws to Passersby ---
A Fountain Designed for Canines Makes a Splash in Oregon; A Parody of Minimalism

By Susan G. Hauser.

Portland, Ore. -- EVERY DOG YEAR OR SO, the social calendar yields an occasion when dog escorts are de rigueur. Such an occasion occurred here recently when all the swells and their dogs showed up for the dedication of "Portland Dog Bowl," a fountain designed by famous dog photographer William Wegman.

About 150 humans gathered on a chilly day in the downtown North Park Blocks, including a pack of politicians and the artist, who looked almost naked without his own weimaraner dogs. Most of the other humans wore dog leashes on their wrists like diamond bracelets, fully aware that the attached pooch was the proper accessory for Portland's dog-human event of the year.

Etiquette dictated that the speeches be delayed while the humans and the dogs mingled, putting palm to palm (humans) or nose to bottom (dogs). Once the sniffing and the shaking were completed, the politicians took turns talking. The dogs amused themselves by wrapping their leashes around the humans' legs as the speeches dragged on. Finally, one of the politicians remembered what this gathering was all about. "It's a great day for dogs!" he exclaimed. The dogs wagged their approval.

Mr. Wegman spoke briefly about the fountain, which he preferred not to think of as public art. "I did this for dogs, not people," he said. The dogs wagged. The humans clapped.

At last the fountain was unveiled. Smack dab in the middle of an urban park, "Portland Dog Bowl" resembles a patch of linoleum kitchen floor with a bowl on the side, as if it were pushed there by a nose. It measures 8 feet by 10 feet with checkerboard black and white granite tiles. To lend visual interest, four of the squares are artificial turf. The cast-bronze bowl, with water burbling up from an underground source, is a doggy version of the "Benson Bubbler" fountains placed around town in 1912 by philanthropist Simon Benson to dissuade Portlanders from drinking beer. (Nice try.)

Immediately, the humans formed a circle around the dogs, forcing many of them onto the granite. Some humans crouched down around snout level, ready to photograph the first slurp. A cry of elation went up from the crowd. The dogs liked it! They really liked it!

Mr. Wegman, temporarily deserted by the three or four weimaraner dogs that had instinctively been drawn to him, stood alone. It was my chance to get the answer I was seeking. Unimpeded by a dog of my own (more about that later), I hurried to his side. And then, fearlessly, the artist offered the stark truth.

"Toilet bowl. My dogs drink out of the toilet bowl."

And yes, he admitted, he did toy with a toilet bowl concept for the fountain, but flushed that idea. Then he considered creating miniature French waiters holding dog bowls. But the verticalness of the figures, he feared, would make them a tempting target for male dogs.

His assignment, as commissioned by Portland's Pearl Arts Foundation, was "to think up something really silly," he said. But if silliness hadn't been in his job description he would have passed on it, preferring to stay home and do silly things with his current pack of dog models, including Batty, Bobbin, Candy, Chip, Chundo and Crooky.

The very concept of public art, he said, "makes me perspire." He has done two other pieces of public art, in Minneapolis and San Diego, but considers them parodies. Even "Portland Dog Bowl" is a parody of minimalist art, he said.

Calling his sculptures parody makes him slightly more comfortable, but he nevertheless shrinks from the public spotlight. "It's like running for mayor," he said. The dog connection, however, makes his contribution to Portland's public art scene more palatable.

"If it didn't work for the dogs, it wouldn't work for me." He even donated part of his fee to the Oregon Humane Society, Foster Pets and the Delta Society, which promotes animal-assisted therapy.

Dogs to the right of him, dogs to the left of him, Mr. Wegman worked his way through the lingering crowd. To anybody who stood still long enough, he showed a stack of snapshots of his two kids and six dogs, two of which live with his sister and one with a friend.

Mr. Wegman told me his career as a dog photographer began serendipitously in 1970 after he answered a newspaper ad for a $35 puppy. It was a weimaraner, something new to this former owner of two cocker spaniels. Amused by the dog's man-like face, he named the puppy Man Ray, after the surrealist photographer. The "Ray" theme resurfaced for subsequent dogs. Bobbin, for example, is short for "Bob and Ray," the radio comedy team who inspired much of Mr. Wegman's silliness.

All the dogs, he said, love to pose for the humorous shots that make up several books and videos, including repeat performances on "Sesame Street" (mostly including counting: one dog, two dogs, etc.). The dogs assume that their posing wins them the right to share Mr. and Mrs. Wegman's bed. He said he lets the dogs sleep under the covers.

"It's more comfortable that way," he told me. "That way they don't cut off your circulation."

Mr. Wegman was lionized (dogized?) all weekend by Portland animal and art lovers, who admired his new photographs in a gallery show, bought his latest book ("Wegmanology") and viewed a collection of his short films and videos.

After all the fuss had died down, I went home to my dog, Daphne, who had been vigilantly guarding our back yard. To assuage my guilt for making her miss the party, I put her in the car and drove her downtown to the dog fountain. I didn't tell her that the creme de la creme of Portland's dog world had already been there, but it was no secret to Daphne, who sniffed the entire guest list in the grass. She gave me a withering look, took a slurp from the fountain and trotted back to the car.

To make it up to her I let her sleep with me that night. Under the covers.