Remember this weeping, terrified infant? The one that’s supposed to represent our most festive, unhinged, joyful, homegrown community gathering in one of our most historic and beloved neighborhoods? It’s still out there, waiting in the ether to descend on us just as soon as the artist’s studio finishes production. (What you see above is definitely the final rendering, we are told.) Or as soon as the rest of the Route 66 development projects get going around Cry Baby Hill. Or possibly never.
We haven’t forgotten, even though public officials probably hoped we would. As Tulsa gears up for whatever the next round of news is about this thing, I’m thinking back on how it started: with a leaked design by New Hampshire artist Ken Kelleher—whose proposal, called “Cry Baby Cry,” was chosen by the City of Tulsa as the awardee of $250,000 and a permanent spot in the Riverview neighborhood—and a subsequent outpouring of public vitriol hotter than a sun-baked bicycle seat. In response to that community outrage, Kelleher revised his design, which, shock of all shocks, generated a second round of hate.
Tulsans haven’t expressed themselves so ferociously about a public art project since Elon Musk’s face got slapped onto the Golden Driller. Okay, that wasn’t public art, strictly speaking. It was a stunt, a lure, a moment of cringe—which, to me, is what this looks like, too.
There are layers to this community response: about the City not listening to stakeholders soon enough or seriously enough, about public funds for art leaving the state, about the framing of the City’s Request for Proposals itself, most about the sculpture just being ugly and probably A.I.-generated. The City, which seems to have expected Tulsa to love “Cry Baby Cry,” admits it could have handled the process better. “What we realized shortly after the selection is that it turns out we’re not perfect. It’s impossible to be inclusive of everyone,” said Ellen Ray, who heads the City’s Design Studio, at a Riverview Neighborhood Association meeting last September. “We want to have a conversation tonight that helps everybody to understand each other and for us to use this as an opportunity to do better.”
Public officials urge us to hang tight. Maybe it will grow on us. It’s all subjective anyway, right? In a Tulsa World op-ed, Ken Busby—Route 66 Alliance CEO, former Executive Director of the Arts & Humanities Council, and Tulsa's "cultural czar"—reminds us that Tulsans hating public art proposals is nothing new. Among other historical controversies, he notes that we missed out on getting a Claes Oldenburg piece at the Tulsa Performing Arts Center complex back in 1977 because the public (and even the Tulsa World’s fine arts editor) thought it was ugly.
Putting aside the suggestions that a) Tulsans have bad taste and a knee-jerk dislike for art made by non-locals, and b) Kelleher’s art is on the level of Oldenburg’s, the quality of the work itself doesn’t seem to be a consideration here at all. Busby encourages us to remember that other cities have seen big economic impact from big-name public art that, surely, some citizens didn’t like. In an interview with the World’s Ginnie Graham (in which he sensibly suggests the City should have listened better and might want to put this whole thing on ice for a while), he opines that public art is supposed to elicit a reaction. “The great thing about public art,” he writes in his op-ed, “is that if you see something that you don’t like, you can walk a few blocks and find another piece of public art that might just resonate with you.” (Just move, Riverview residents! It’s very easy and convenient to just move.) All this hate is not productive, in other words. Especially because cultural tourism dollars are at stake.
But I think we should keep talking—and more importantly, thinking—about this, not just stuff our opinions into the closet so they can explode again at the next development in the story. Expressing opinions about the public art the City chooses for us is healthy, even if it’s just a silly roadside attraction whose real purpose, we know, is tax revenue. (Whether Facebook comments sections are healthy is another question.)
Fairly evaluating even work I don’t like is a priority for me. But the visceral “nope” with which I responded to both versions of “Cry Baby Cry” has stayed with me through every attempt I’ve made to give it the benefit of the doubt. I’m standing with the haters, who are right: this thing sucks.
It’s not clever, good-humored, or even kitschy
The RFP wanted something “classic, kitschy, and worthy of countless roadside selfies.” At that Riverview Neighborhood Association meeting, attended by Riverview residents, concerned citizens, and City representatives, former mayoral chief of staff Blake Ewing said G. T. Bynum wanted “something big and selfie-worthy and goofy and had a story…. The mayor felt like Tulsa has a legacy and a tradition of goofy roadside attractions.”
I’ll grant them this: “Cry Baby Cry” is big. Twenty-one feet tall, in fact.
But where’s the raucous, free-spirited joy of Cry Baby Hill here? Whatever “story” it tells looks like it came out of generative software, which, as far as I can tell, appears to be the case. It has far less to say, in fact, than the likes of Buck Atom, the Golden Driller, or the Blue Whale, to which the former mayor was presumably referring and which the RFP references as inspirational prompts.
The Blue Whale is incongruous, sure, but the creator intended it as a gift for his whale-loving wife and a play space for kids! The Driller is a super-clear image of the grandiose dreams of the oilmen who erected it. The members of the Mary Beth Babcock Giant Cinematic Universe come out of a specific lineage of Route 66 art, conceived by someone with a widely respected enthusiasm for Route 66 and Oklahoma (not to mention longtime support for local artists). The designs for Buck Atom and Stella Atom were an homage to Babcock’s parents. I don’t consider any of these “goofy.” “Cry Baby Cry” isn’t goofy either: it’s frankly upsetting.
As for kitsch: another miss. Kitsch is fundamentally uncool, anti-trend, anarchic, non-corporate, and easy to love (no matter how “bad” it is) because it’s so obviously made by human hands. That’s its magic. That’s why it’s timeless, “classic.” (The taxidermied opossum in the cowboy hat at Mercury Lounge: kitsch.) Instead, we have a massive, moaning child, chosen by committee, that’s likely to look dated by your next software update.
It’s a giant baby with no connection to Route 66
The RFP is maddeningly confusing in outlining its concept, which is one source of the trouble here. “This site is an opportunity to honor Tulsa’s Route 66 history, celebrate Cry Baby Hill, and shape the city’s future,” it says. “Cry Baby themed iconography is encouraged,” but also “respondents should strongly consider the site’s location at the nexus of Route 66 and Cry Baby Hill…. While there is no geographic or residency requirement, successful proposals will understand this site as a microcosm of Tulsa mythos and design accordingly.” That’s a lot you’re trying to do there, RFP. It’s not a surprise that we ended up with something almost nobody likes.
All the days of the year, this site sits in a neighborhood that happens to be a historic Route 66 gateway to Tulsa. On one of those days it hosts Tulsa Tough’s big Sunday crit. Noting these proportions, Riverview residents expressed a preference that the chosen design—(if anything had to be put in their neighborhood at all—not be baby-focused. (The one Riverview representative on the selection committee voted against Kelleher’s design.) At least Kelleher, who says he’s a fan of Route 66, paid attention to the RFP’s expectation that, if a proposed design is going to include a baby, “any explicit baby representations are not depicted with a particular human skin tone color." Maybe he thought coating the baby in chrome was a clever bridge between Cry Baby Hill and Route 66. I don’t think it is. It looks like a vintage Cadillac bumper in shorts.
There are so many stories to be told about Tulsa’s historic place on the Mother Road: about expansion and gentrification, about who got to safely participate in that generation’s carefree travel and who didn't, about the beauty of the landscape, about what folks were leaving behind or trying to find. This captures none of them. It does capture the City’s “how do you do, fellow kids” effort to market Route 66 to a new generation.
Also in attendance at that Riverview meeting: the dean of Route 66 himself, Michael Wallis, who serves on the national Route 66 Centennial Commission and suggested that “Cry Baby Cry” probably has Route 66 founder Cyrus Avery “turning over a bit out in his mausoleum.”
It’s a giant baby that doesn’t even get Cry Baby Hill right
“Cry baby” was originally used by Tulsa’s most rabid cycling fans as a loving taunt for the riders as they fought the toughest hills of the race. Kelleher says he “loved” reading about Cry Baby Hill and found the event “incredibly funny” when he started learning about it—and that was that. Many of the most heated opinions about “Cry Baby Cry” showed up on CBH’s own Facebook page, culminating in this cry of desolation from the Hill itself: “Thanks, we hate it!”
After the initial shitstorm, the City sat down with the founders of Cry Baby Hill and Tulsa Tough representatives in an effort to redirect the design. It helped a little. At least now the baby has a bike and a CBH-inspired disco helmet and ref shirt, instead of just standing in random work boots, weeping at the sky. (It had a T-shirt with the Soundpony logo on it in one version of the redesign, but that didn’t last.)
But with its absence of dynamic lines or visual excitement, plus the ongoing gaze of horror in the eyes of the woebegone child, Kelleher's revised-from-a-distance take on Cry Baby Hill is still a misread, making this thrilling, freaky, beloved criterium-slash-celebration seem static, boring and depressing. Which is an even worse effect on a site that’s meant to commemorate an icon of happy-go-lucky “movement” itself, Route 66.
“While we are aware that projects like this rarely receive unanimous support, we, along with Ken Kelleher, believe we have arrived at a rendering capable of representing the story of Cry Baby Hill and Tulsa Tough to the thousands of Route 66 travelers from around the world who pass through Tulsa,” the City said when it released the “final rendering.” I’m not sold. At its heart, what Cry Baby Hill is about is what Soundpony is about: a love of cycling and hyper-inclusive Tulsa community. This ain’t that.
It’s derivative
Possibly the most ubiquitous criticism: “It’s an Astro Boy ripoff.” “Does Kip’s Big Boy know about this?” “It’s A.I. art by an A.I. artist.”
Where’s the risk, the vulnerability, the authenticity? More than a few of Kelleher’s designs carry more than a whiff of intellectual property theft. He says A.I. enables him “to push boundaries and explore previously uncharted territories.” It must be a coincidence that those territories are full of established brands and other peoples’ ideas.
“Cry Baby Cry” doesn’t even rise to the level of genuinely weird, which would be something I could get behind. Even the name is low-effort, unoriginal, un-fun.
Grist for the A.I. Slop Mill
So why is this what we ended up with? Among the designs submitted to the City, Kelleher’s was certainly eye-catching and professional-looking—same for his resume. But one reason it looks so polished (no chrome pun intended) is also one of the reasons it feels so disconnected: Kelleher uses generative software to design his work, which is often intentionally fantastical, made to facilitate a sort of trippy experience of a known environment. (Facebook commenters instantly came up with renderings similar to Kelleher’s, presumably on the basis of similar keyword prompts.)
I actually don’t hate Kelleher’s more abstract works, which capture the spirit of play and delight he says he values (even though most of them exist only as digital renderings of his designs dropped into photos of public spaces). But in a site-specific, local-history-centered, publicly-funded situation like this one—where art-making inspirations and decisions really, really need to connect with the place itself—creativity and A.I. are antithetical to each other. (If you haven’t yet, read Ted Chiang on “Why A.I. Isn’t Going To Make Art.”)
The most inventive element of Kelleher’s enterprise seems to be his A.I.-assisted strategy for applying for jobs. An entire page of his website details how his studio uses the technology as “part of our creative process.” It’s especially useful, he suggests, in pitching proposals for contracts like the one he’s won from the City of Tulsa:
Creating presentations for projects is a particularly time-consuming aspect of an artist's work… In such a context, leveraging AI can be a game-changer, significantly reducing the time and effort required for this critical, yet often unproductive, aspect of the artistic profession….
Moreover, AI … enables artists to customize their proposals with greater precision, highlighting aspects of their work that are most likely to resonate with the intended audience … [and] helping artists refine their messaging and visuals to maximize impact. By leveraging AI in this way, artists can enhance the effectiveness of their presentations, improving their chances of converting proposals into paying work and reducing the frustration of unproductive efforts.
Undeniably, this assembly-line process works—if you define “works” as “it gets you six-figure contracts.” It must be especially useful when you have little knowledge of the place where the art is going to live, and whose history and culture it’s supposed to reflect or celebrate. I can see how this approach would hit with local officials whose eyes are full of tax revenue promises, and who want to hire someone who looks like he knows what he’s doing when it comes to fabrication, installation and promotion. But in a city where artists are working so hard to build skills and land opportunities (such as, to be fair, the one the City recently gave local muralists at the new Zink Lake Overlook), it stings to see this process rewarded.
On the upside, maybe it’ll never get built
This is certainly an attraction that may result in the action of taking a selfie, or even buying a souvenir, by tourists who will supposedly be drawn to see this thing (and then get back in their cars and drive away). I’m here for whatever economic improvement comes to my neighbors as a result. And I’ll try to keep an open mind as we wait, since the City apparently has no plans to withdraw the contract.
I’m also still mad about it.
Because it’s the opposite of the singularly original outcomes of the weird, organic processes that brought us historic Route 66 kitsch, Tulsa’s existing roadside attractions, and Cry Baby Hill.
Because it feels less like an homage than an instance of extracting value from a homegrown thing and trying to capitalize on it—and because Kelleher’s methods are extractive, too.
Because, while ostensibly honoring a local landmark, it represents a failure to listen to local residents and to invest in helping local artists build sustainable careers here.
Because it doesn’t say anything real or heartfelt or cool or even funny.
Because I’m tired of being force-fed Route 66 content meant for—and created by—people with no relationship to this place.
Because no amount of redesigning, persuading or growing-on-me is going to make this choice feel any more connected to this site.
Who knows if “Cry Baby Cry” will actually arrive here in the 3D, chrome-painted flesh? At this point, does anybody even want it to? My strongest wish for this distressed infant: that the sun goes down on it gently. That it might find comfort and peace in the world of imagination, while we who live here get on with the business of building our real 21st century city, not from monetized nostalgia or futuristic dreams, but from the ground and the soul of this place.
