Right ahead, you’ll spot a large bronze figure lounging on a rock between Lewisohn Hall and Low Memorial Library-just look for a relaxed, muscular half-man, half-goat reclining lazily and playing a small panpipe.
Now let me invite you into the whimsical, world-weary gaze of Pan himself! Picture Columbia at the turn of the 20th century. This quirky, offbeat creature-crafted by George Grey Barnard-wasn’t always at home here on campus. Oh no, he’s had an epic journey! If you peer up at his tangled beard and goat-like hooves, you’ll notice: Pan looks nothing like the statuesque athletes or wise statesmen you might expect in a university courtyard. Instead, this is the Greek god of pastures-a lover of wild music, rustic mischief, and, well, just lying about. He doesn’t even have his horns or a tail, but watch out for those pointy ears!
But trust me, it wasn’t always hammocks and sunshine for this guy. Barnard came up with the idea for Pan in 1894, hoping he’d brighten the fancy courtyard of The Dakota, a luxury Manhattan apartment building. Imagine: the pipes of Pan echoing off marble hallways, with upper-crust New Yorkers glancing nervously at his… let’s say… relaxed pose. Barnard’s biggest fan, Alfred Corning Clark, agreed-and paid for this massive statue to be made. But before Pan had his moment in the sun, poor Alfred died suddenly, and Pan became an art-world orphan.
Clark’s family tried to get Pan a spot in Central Park instead, planning for him to star in a grand fountain. But elected officials just couldn’t decide. Months passed, arguments raged-some said Pan was too strange, some wondered if his, uh, brutish legs were a little unsettling. A cartoonist even mocked the rejected Pan alongside another racy statue. In the end, the Parks Commission gave a great big New York “Nope,” and Pan missed out on Central Park glory-not once, but twice!
Luckily, Clark’s son stepped up. He paid for this enormous bronze to be cast-in one single piece! That was unheard of in America back then, and no French foundry dared try. But a determined bronze master in Mount Vernon, New York, worked for months on an absolutely giant mold, sweating over every curve and bumpy goat hoof. Finally, in a triumphant clatter and hiss of hot metal, Pan was born. If artistic medals are your thing, Pan did pretty well for himself anyway: a gold at the Paris Exposition, a gold in Buffalo, another at St. Louis-though in St. Louis, it was the foundry, not the sculptor, that took home the trophy. Even art has its share of heartbreak, I suppose!
In 1907, after being snubbed by park commissioners yet again, Pan made his way here, a gift to Columbia from the Clark family. Originally he lounged on a plush Neoclassical base, surrounded by a fountain, lion-head water spouts, and curved granite benches-quite the upgrade from park benches and city debates! Students wrote poems to him, artists praised his vitality, and even critics found him hard to ignore (“The head is powerfully grotesque!”), but still, the people grew to love his gently mischievous grin. Even today, you can still spot traces of the water stains where he dangled his hoof above a fountain that’s now long gone.
Over the decades, Pan has been moved and shuffled around campus for construction and expansions, but he’s always landed on his feet (or, well, hooves). Today-north of West 116th, between these beloved Columbia halls-Pan keeps his lazy vigil, his flute almost poised, as if daring anyone to blow off their next class. So, as you stand here, maybe take a moment and listen for the god of wild places… you never know, he might just inspire you to skip your next meeting and soak up the sunlight for a while!
