‘Blizzard’ fills Patterson Park’s Observatory with light, art, and poetry

Venture outside this winter, and if you pass through Patterson Park, you’ll be rewarded with colorful scenes in the Observatory’s first-floor windows filled with cozy artwork interpreting Linda Pastan’s poem, “Blizzard.” At night, the windows are lit with lights that gradually change colors. Considering how unusually snowy our winter has been, the artwork and poetry fits Baltimore’s creative vibe perfectly.

When Jennifer Robinson, executive director of Friends of Patterson Park, reached out to artist Kait Klusewitz, it was not the first time they had worked together. Robinson asked Klusewitz to decorate the Observatory for the winter season last year as well, an experience she enjoyed so much that she was happy to return for another chance to decorate the structure.

“They knew they wanted something cozy and comforting with Victorian imagery and a focus on community,” Klusewitz told Baltimore Fishbowl in an email. “Last year we chose a poem as the center-point of the artwork, so this year we wanted to continue that theme! After some research into writers and poets with local ties, we landed on Blizzard, by Linda Pastan, who lived in Maryland toward the end of her life, and was Maryland’s Poet Laureate from 1991-1995.”

The windows show not only Klusewitz’s artwork, but lines from Pastan’s poem.

The artist did not grow up in Baltimore, but lived in Baltimore City for nearly 14 years, almost all that time within a couple of blocks of Patterson Park.

“While Baltimore wasn’t my childhood stomping grounds, it certainly has become my home and I truly love so much about it, from the architecture to the landmarks,” she said. “The imagery came so naturally from the language in the poem, and leant itself well to a kind of gingerbread style row home city-scape that’s so familiar in Baltimore.”

The work itself is colorful and nostalgic and could easily have come from an old children’s bedtime storybook about winter in Baltimore.

Klusewitz said they were intentional about using reference material from neighborhoods all over Baltimore to connect with audiences from everywhere, regardless of where they are from. Having begun her art career with a community advocacy project that had her painting windows in Baltimore homes made this project feel very “full circle” for her.

Robinson also felt the serendipity of connecting with Klusewitz for the project, saying, “We were thrilled that when we researched some of the painted windows we loved in Fells Point, the artist turned out to be right in the neighborhood and someone who’s in the park every day!”

Knowing she wanted the artwork photographed, Robinson enlisted Harry Connolly, a professional photographer who mostly works in the documentary style. Having done some work at the Walters Museum, though, helped him in his work on the “Blizzard” photos. Robinson asked him to document Klusewitz’s work to have a record of it, and to share with anyone who might be interested, and with the publisher, W.W. Norton, who gave permission to use the poem.

Connolly feels it’s best to view the artwork at night. “You can see it anytime, but it’s best seen at night when the art is backlit with lights that change color as you walk around the Observatory,” he said. “It’s one nice Blizzard.”

In his video below, the colors change behind the artwork.

The poem that inspired Kluzewitz’s art is below.

Blizzard by Linda Pastan

the snow
has forgotten
how to stop
it falls
stuttering
at the glass
a silk windsock
of snow
blowing
under the porch light
tangling trees
which bend
like old women
snarled
in their own
knitting
snow drifts
up to the step
over the doorsill
a pointillist’s blur
the wedding
of form and motion
shaping itself
to the wish of
any object it touches
chairs become
laps of snow
the moon could be
breaking apart
and falling
over the eaves
over the roof
a white bear
shaking its paw
at the window
splitting the hive
of winter
snow stinging
the air
I pull a comforter
of snow
up to my chin
and tumble
to sleep
as the whole
alphabet
of silence
falls out of the
sky