This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Aug. 31, 2012 - The birth of City Museum was one of the most wildly creative, challenging, and rewarding times of Gail’s life and long partnership with Bob Cassilly. The time was riotous and frenzied, euphoric and maddening.
This is the fifth of five excerpts from her soon-to-be-published autobiography, “Saltwater.”
With space galore to spare, Bob marked out his personal territory, reserving about 115,000 square feet of the back building as birthing ground for his whimsical indulgence: space where he could run wild assembling the jigsaw puzzle pile of scavenged materials he had been accumulating to erect some kind of realized magic.
Besides feeling the security of financial backing from tenants and banks, even some family members and friends stepped forward to invest in the pulsating mystery of what could not yet be defined. My mother and stepfather were among the first to gift and loan us money, demonstrating unblinking support in their quiet way for doings they were not wired to comprehend, like the construction of a colossal 35,000 gallon-fish tank in what once served as an indoor, oily surfaced first floor parking garage.
That just happened to be the first tangible inspiration to light in Bob’s mind: building an aquarium. “Fish tank” was hardly an adequate term for describing the massive container of water he constructed and adorned with voluptuous mermaids, menacing sea creatures, and cascading water play.
The ambitious aquarium idea proceeded to gobble up space, spreading upwards through the mouth of a 50-foot long bowhead whale sculpted in plaster and interiorly designed to serve as a ramp up to a mezzanine level overlooking the “fish tank.” I spent months of a cold damp winter crouched in the bowels of that whale, plastering and sanding secret crawl spaces concocted for a future’s worth of tiny and daring adventurers. Downwards, the project excavated its way under the building’s loading docks to forge a twisted maze of underground caves designed to rival the skill of Mother Nature, herself. The caves were sculpted with no obvious relationship to the fish tank, which was … well … leaking … and there were those poor fish to consider!
Even with professional intervention they suffered considerably. Blimps of slippery fishy bodies languished then expired, necessitating more and more scaly recruits to test our watery formula for survival. Our colossal florid fish tank was there to stay, thus the fish would have to learn to live on art’s terms. Some species began to show signs of adjusting, and the turtles we tossed in seemed both content and amused by their opulent digs. But, just as the fish started to swim about with a splash of spunk, Bob’s original aquarium idea went belly up in his own mind. Maintaining living things involved too much care to qualify as fun on a daily basis, best to restrict them, best to limit difficulties to one massive aquatic centerpiece and move on from there. We were stuck with it anyway.
After the tank, the walk-thru whale, and the cave, events spiraled out of control: magnificently so like fireworks with a band of fuses lit at once. Our private endeavor began to draw an audience of curious onlookers eager for a taste of something spicy enough to rattle the palate of the local community. The scope and the pace of our mystery project jumped by leaps and bounds as segments of the starving artist population signed on, and friends of friends filtered in to take a look – a look that usually led them to pick up broom or shovel and stay.
Bob led our buzzing army and every soldier among us guzzled the can-do euphoria of the sweet madness engulfing us. With the once abandoned block all but vibrating from the frenzy, we drew in other sorts of visitors, civic leaders and wealthy patrons who detected in our grassroots verve a potent source of energy for jumpstarting the revitalization of the area soon to be dubbed The Loft District.
For many dusty years the main problem in the area had been one of life, not of space or of buildings, and here we were splattering life about in every which way but the ordinary. These connected groups and individuals offered to buy in to the momentum of our waves. They tossed the perks of cash and kudos at our feet and we succumbed to their lure.
Unfortunately, though naturally, the perks came with snagging hooks attached: we would have to define our enterprise, set a time table for completion, and develop a mission statement geared towards benefiting the local community at large, not just ourselves. We would have to become a not-for-profit entity and live by the rules of one. All of our projects tended to evolve from creative whim, challenge, and opportunity, leaving profit to cozy up with a question mark, so the bleak financial tone of “not-for-profit” didn’t rattle us, and the social-minded overtone of a mission wasn’t altogether unappealing – at least not to me. Primarily, it was the fear of restricting ourselves (Bob) by definition and the dread of being governed by, and held accountable to, an outside board of directors that brought chills and raised hairy goose bumps. Bob would be tethered: cash for cage.
Though the not-for-profit road appealed to my nature, I wore my devil’s hot red cape and taunted Bob with repeated warnings about the pit-falls involved in relinquishing full control, and questioning head on his ability to play team sports and follow team rules. Having always functioned as his own boss, we debated long and hard over the pros and cons of hopping into bed with the establishment. The choice fell to him in the end; he was the only one who could make it. He opted for the cash, cash was the only way the project could keep up with itself and, true to form, he ignored the cage. With his decision our partnership revved up its engines and accelerated full-speed ahead: BaBa would get it made, and YaYa would get it opened.
At this stage we semi-guessed that we were well on the way to constructing a kid’s version of wonderland, though aesthetic and sculptural design dominated to such an extent that we might’ve been in the middle of birthing a co-existing haven for art lovers, as well. Given all the recycled materials and architectural goodies being freshly incorporated into what now added up to three entire floors of the 10-story building, green-minded folks and preservationist types flocked to us as if we were in the midst of erecting a citadel of salvation. All types licked their lips and stared in astonishment at the spectacle taking shape.
How do you title that which defies definition on all fronts? Circling round and round, entertaining hilarious, outrageous, and moronic attempts at labeling, our brain-storming led us smack dab back to where our feet were planted and our work was focused: the city. Embracing a generic sense of freedom we named our enterprise “City Museum,” trumpeting the word “city” as a thrumming hub of energy, a bustling center of activity, a diverse body of possibility infused with a touch of panic. As for the musty, stuffy word “museum,” we leaned towards the long ago interpretations of “cabinets of curiosities” and “pleasure houses.” We envisioned the whole of the building as one luscious muse: a lively spirit imbued with powers to generate life and inspiration. Combined, the word “city” and the word “museum” covered vast and vague territory. I recall being the one to coin and push for the name, but over the years I’ve heard others lay claim as well. Whoever, the name seemed perfect.
It was none other than my husband’s idea that I, his wife, assume the role of Director of City Museum. At first I balked for a full menu of reasons, foremost being my obvious lack of experience and knowledge of such things and places. Studying the reality of the situation, however, it became clear that the most significant credential called for was knowing how to manage Bob and his erratic ways. No one could hold a candle to me there; my resume was top-notch. I signed on for our wildest ride yet.