Pappajohn Scupture Park

After visiting Exile Brewing Company, I found myself disappointed and needing to wait off the alcohol I consumed.  So I decided to wander around the area and see if there was anything interesting to explore.  As luck would have it, Exile was about a block from the Pappajohn Sculpture Park.

Seriously.  That’s the official name.

I had driven by the park before, and wanted to make a point to visit.  I guess there was a silver lining to the Exile excursion.  So for your viewing pleasure, here are photos of the park, with commentary from a grumpy, slightly tipsy Patrick.


I’m pretty sure these girders were always here.  After a while, the park board just said, “F-it, we’re not cleaning them up.  Let’s just spray paint them red and call it a sculpture.”  And thus the sculpture park was born.



In a stroke of architectural genius, the lines actually draw your eye toward the man gently sobbing in the parked minivan.


You could actually see my reflection in the panels the first time I photographed this.  Which for some reason annoyed me enough to take another photo.



Remember the man gently sobbing in the earlier photo?  This statue does.


Watch out, Jeff.  The one-boobed lady has competition!


Imagine if they added red LED lights for eyes.  Yikes.


This is pretty much my nightmare: giant arachnids with cages for harboring prey.


A wooden horse.  Equally as effective as the horses I bet on at Prairie Meadows.


The Thinker?  Try the Lagomorph.


This is a good metaphor for my life.


Partially-completed, racially-inclusive snowmen (or women).


That is unequivocally a wang.  You don’t need an art history degree to tell.


Did I leave the oven on?


Caterpillar lovers surrounding a cup?


I actually really like this one.  You can see so many different geometric shapes when you look at it from different angles.  Also, it reminds me of Minecraft for some reason.


Happy giant ghost child.


I can’t tell if they’re dancing or fighting.  Can it be both?


Interesting that there are no letters below the chest.


American Robins are apparently harsher art critics than I am.


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