"The chemistry in my work is much more complicated than a painter who mixes pigments together to get the right color. If you are a painter or a sculptor, you can do it yourself. But my work involves many, many things." Christo wiggles like a restless child after a long car ride. "I must talk hours and hours to everyone. Explain my story. Be patient. Understand their problems. I need to mix everything to click right to make it happen." He pauses. "I like to do my work. I talk to people because I'm aware of what my work is, and that is the work."

Since Christo accepts no grants, donations or outside funding of any kind, it's up to his wife and partner, Jeanne Claude, to sell enough of his smaller pieces to finance the bigger ones. Evidently she succeeds. But is it her, I ask, or is she just a skilled business woman who knows how to play the art market?

Christo laughs out loud, rocks back in his chair and shakes his head. "Without her, there would be no projects. No."

"Come on," I argue. "She does practical stuff. Anyone with good money sense and your art could do that." His face constricts with seriousness. "She goes beyond the practical. She is part of the structuralism. She becomes involved in the very first moments of my idea." He looks at me uncertain I will understand. "We are together over 30 years." He relaxes into a smile. "There would be no projects." I understand.
 

A clear plastic cover still sheathed the umbrella. It didn't require the fish-hook pole to strip it away. Instead, the crew scavenged at it until it bunched at the base like unzipped trousers. A final cut to the protective umbilical coat set free at last the full, sanguine figure of an elegant yellow bud. The wind teased it so the bottom rim of fabric fluttered a come hither invitation like a shy dance partner.

As I walked closer, the crew encircled and prepared for the opening. A man kneeled on the base and inserted a hand-held crank while the others each grabbed the protracting ends of the spokes.

As the crank made its first turn round, the spokes rose and separated and the fabric flared and flapped. Everyone yelped encouragement to the cranker whose strength fought the intractable knob. He changed positions to use both hands, then turned the knob again and again until the spokes rose like newly fred birds from the open palms of the crew. Yards of yellow unfurled, stretched and widened until magically, as if by timelapse photography, the umbrella blossomed into a full-grown pose of graceful and serene beauty.

We clapped; we laughed, and we gazed in awe. The wind played against the umbrella like water and it responded with receptive ripples, waves and swells. A silky yellow mirror tangibly reflecting the ever-changing face of the wind. I was left alone to stare as the crew gathered their gear and headed to their second unveiling.
 

"Art plays an essential role in America because it is one of the few means of communication that can reach beyond technology." Christo says, counselling himself between sentences. "It's very difficult to project art that communicates beyond the so-called super market dimension. The super market story is strange. It is not sad, but it is simplistic, trivia. Art should address higher levels of perception. Art should not be canned or caught by that system."