St Alexius in the Hospital Solarium
St. Alexius sculpture by Timothy Schmalz at St. Alexius Hospital, Bismarck, North Dakota, USA. Visited on February 17, 2023.
The solarium is spacious. There are trees and couches and soft music. The side of my face is flush with heat from a gas fireplace. A hospital employee sits in an armchair with her feet on an ottoman. A minute later, she’s asleep. Her head goes limp and drifts to her shoulder. Her arms slip from the armrests and hang to the side of the chair.
Outside, it's 39 degrees. Warm for North Dakota. The sky is a wash, the color of a computer screen gone blank. No snow, so far, not yet, not since we arrived a week ago, but it will come. If it comes before we’re scheduled to leave, then we’ll stay until the roads clear. I cannot control the weather.
Nor do I control the rapidity and transparency of communication between doctors, nurses, and administrative staff. We are in hospital limbo, waiting to find out whether my mother-in-law will be discharged or not. Nobody knows. Everyone says what they think we want to hear. An hour goes by. Another hour goes by. The staff are exhausted. We are frustrated.
While we wait, I take to the solarium. I may as well get some work done. I complete one assignment, then another. I respond to my emails. I’m quite productive. The solarium is silent, peaceful, calm, tranquil. Despite the circumstances, I find it’s good to be here, good for maintaining concentration.
Finished working, I take a moment to appreciate my surroundings. The hospital employee and me, and this statue of St. Alexius — we’re the only figures in the room. I’d noticed the statue when I sat down. It struck me as odd, worth investigating, but not special. No longer preoccupied by a restless urgency, I take a second look. The statue ensnares my attention.
The Closer He Is, The More Aloof
I dislike the paternalism. The way the Saint is cast as father figure, protector, holy and healthy Man of God. I dislike his gentle smile, the beaming sympathetic face that suggests heavenly bliss. I dislike the way his charitable nature is represented by a towering stature and fine robes, as if to conflate charity and authority. Is the saint better than his wards?
A hospital solarium invites you to pause. It does not intend to give you pause. That defeats its purpose, but the longer I remain in a space so deliberately designed to soothe my turmoil, the more likely I am to resist. The restless urgency returns. This space would love for me to relax, to let things go, but eventually they have the opposite effect.
This sculpture, likewise, prefers I ask no questions. The saint is a saint. A good man. A loving, kind, firm father figure who gathers in his arms the infirm. Yet I cannot look away, and as I regard the scene more closely, it becomes clear that the sculpture betrays its superficial message (deliberately or accidentally).
Look at the little girl standing in front. In her raised hand sits a chipmunk. She is petrified with terror. She is afraid that if she moves, she will spook the chipmunk. It is as if someone were taking a group photo, and she worries that any movement will ruin the shot and be condemned to Hell.
Then there is the shirtless man with massive arms who stands next to her on one side. His biceps, triceps, and deltoids are comedically swole. He leans on a crutch and looks longingly at the Saint’s face. He is an adult, yet his expression is childish. He looks to the saint … for acknowledgement? For approval? The saint does not look back.
Then there’s the little boy in front, next to the girl. He may not be a boy. He may also be a little girl. It’s difficult to tell, which I count as an artistic virtue. Look at the child’s left hand, the way it’s pressed against the Saint’s stomach. If this were a sentimental scene, one would expect the child’s arm to wrap around the saint in a hug. What I see, rather, is the gesture of a child who is being hugged against their will.
Then there are the children in back, who cling to the saint’s robes. Because the sculpture is set close to the wall, you might not even notice them unless you’ve gotten up to take a closer look. Look at them. How could anyone ignore their distress? How could anyone suggest they are happy, calm, safe?
When I say the sculpture “betrays” its message, I mean that says one thing and does another. I don’t mean in the sense that there’s a subtext, that the artist is “winking” at us, or that it’s ironic. I mean it more in the sense that someone says “I’m here to help,” while pointing a gun at you. Likewise, the sculpture subverts its own promise.
Because a lot of commissioned art is bland and uninspiring, or blatant propaganda, or both, I find examples like “St Aloisus” genuinely remarkable, the way they manage to fulfill and subvert the expectations of different types of viewers. For instance, I imagine those who commissioned and paid for the piece would not approve of my interpretation. Yet what I describe is plainly and obviously there. If you don’t believe me, visit the solarium and decide for yourself.