Statehood Quarters

On March 29, Florida will become the 27th state to participate in the US Mint's statehood quarter program. In order of their admission to the Union, the 50 states are taking turns adorning George Washington's back at the rate of five a year. Florida's approved design, penned by freelance artist Ralph Butler, lauds the state as the "Gateway to Discovery" and proudly portrays a disjointed montage of a space shuttle, Ponce de León's ship and a beachfront dotted by palm trees.

Florida's coin perpetuates the weakness for cluttered and nonsensical designs that has sunk most states' efforts to date. Kicking off in January 1999 with Delaware's Caesar Rodney on horseback, the coin program, incepted to boost a waning interest in coin collecting, has been an unmitigated debacle for just about everyone involved. Stuck somewhere between a commemoration of state history and a billboard for tourism, the quarters have caused headaches for low-profile contributing artists and governors alike.

Congress projected the proceeds of the quarter drive, through sales of silver proof coins and sets, to be at or around $110 million over the life of the program. Beyond that, the US Treasury predicted "indirect earnings" of between $2.6 billion and $5.1 billion. How, Lord only knows; if every single US citizen saved one copy of each quarter printed thus far, it would remove $3.6 billion from circulation, but in actuality, closer to one out of 100 people are saving these things. Mind you, these predictions come from the same people who put full faith in the since-discontinued Sacagawea dollar coin (not to mention that other lady — what was her name again?)

The Mint initially adopted a hands-off approach to the specific designs, with each state having complete control over the selection process. The popular approach was to winnow down a cattle call for submissions to a few finalists, then open it up to a public vote. Wisconsin appointed an advisory board to make the call. Its design, a Native American shaking hands with a trapper, was promptly vetoed by Governor Jim Doyle, who instead submitted the popular choice: a haunting montage of a floating cow head and a cheese wheel.

Doyle's iniquity might suggest that if one design popular with both people and politicians emerges, all is well in Eden, but Missouri has proved quite the opposite. The final design, though similar in concept, varied greatly from artist Paul Jackson's winning submission. Originally depicting Lewis and Clark sailing through the reeds (with the historically anomalous St. Louis Arch in the background), the design changed to what looks like two campers embarking in a bathtub from the local McDonald's. Incensed, Jackson and a fair share of the Missouri populace rebelled and placed stickers of his original design on the backside of Missouri quarters, thereby defacing federal currency. (His site has since mysteriously dropped a front page dedicated to the controversy.) For the state that elected a dead man to the Senate in 2000, this is par for the course.

There may not be a museum yet built to honor the program's "quarter art," but the prevalence of the aforementioned montage approach is reason enough to burn such a structure to the ground. For every gorgeous portrait (Maine's Pemaquid Point lighthouse, Rhode Island's ocean snapshot, Connecticut's white oak), we get a South Carolina (Palmetto tree/Carolina wren/Yellow Jessamine/state outline/state nickname) or an Arkansas, which, among other images, has a floating diamond lying directly in the path of a midflight mallard (most assuredly named Lucy). Louisiana, rather than pursuing Mardi Gras, the French Quarter, Cajun cuisine or Britney, opted for a third-grade map of the Louisiana Purchase. Just fine, until they flanked it with a pelican the size of Alaska and a trumpet that stretches from the Dakotas to New York State.

Louisiana is one of nine states to incorporate the familiar outline of its borders. New York and Massachusetts play it great and make their geography one of the prominent features of their design, but most in this group place the outline behind a smattering of miscellaneous icons (Georgia and Ohio). Illinois has the most blood on its hands: cityscape, farmscape, stars, state outline, slogan, Lincoln and a ridiculous blip that reads "21st State [and] Century." In addition to clutter and confusion, the flatlanders add risk by tracing their famous downtown skyline, a move that New York thankfully sidestepped in early 2001.

There have been squatters' arguments over the Mint's terms of the designs. One of the few clear guidelines delcares that once a state has chosen an image or concept, subsequent participants cannot submit anything remotely close to it. According to Brooks Barnes' recent Wall Street Journal article, this has caused no end of problems for Ohio, which jousted with Florida over the space shuttle, New Jersey over the lightbulb and North Carolina over the Wright Bros. As reward for being the most belligerent participant so far, the Buckeye State had to move forward with the Trivial Pursuit-worthy "Birthplace of Aviation Pioneers." Odd, considering that the Wright Bros. are primarily associated with Kitty Hawk, N.C., and Neil Armstrong with the moon. It's also strange because our jingoistic nation now has just as many quarters commemorating the Wright Bros. as it does past presidents (two — Illinois' Lincoln, and New Jersey's depiction of Washington crossing the Delaware).

More such disputes will be unleashed as statehood proceeds west, leading to a land rush for such sparse landmarks as the Rocky Mountains and the Grand Canyon. Having a state-park-caliber wonder all to yourself (a la Mount Rushmore) can also backfire: Erosion and collapse have made New Hampshire's Old Man in the Mountain unrecognizable. Still, it was a blessing at the time. What will, say, Oregon celebrate? And what can the Dakotas, the nation's leaders in citizen attrition, bring to the table? As long as it doesn't resemble the bust of Washington on the front, South Dakota can trot out Rushmore, but for North Dakota, what? A coin depicting a legislative hearing with a caption "Still trying to drop the 'North?'"

What, pray tell, will happen in Nevada, a state known primarily for sin? Will we be treated to a sodden Courtney Love teasing the tail end of a mojito? Charlie Sheen face-down on a blackjack felt? Odds are, Henrietta Fore, current US Mint director and former Las Vegas businesswoman, will lend a hand and conjure something far less visceral and far more tourism-friendly, like the Hoover Dam, the state's only stop for minors. Even with a less-than-sexy coin, Nevada might not feel the pinch as much as, say, Indiana, whose featured Indy car is the emblem of a circuit quickly losing ground to southern-rooted NASCAR.

Will future efforts curtail this nightmare, or is the program headed for more calamity? Apparently, the artwork on the last 20 coins will be created by a healthy roster of qualified, Mint-commissioned artists, based on descriptors from the state. In addition, it should be noted that although 2003 produced three of the worst collages to date, it also introduced the gorgeous (and uncaptioned) Maine coin and a touching Alabama tribute to Helen Keller. In fact, the program has also brought light to two heretofore underrated heroes: the aforementioned Mr. Rodney and Connecticut's Joseph Wadsworth. Rodney, addled with cancer and asthma, made an 80-mile sprint from Delaware through heat and storms to arrive in Philadelphia in time to cast the deciding vote for independence in 1776. In Wadsworth's case, a British legion dispatched by King James II arrived in Connecticut in October 1687 and demanded both the dissolution of their government and the revocation of their charter. In the middle of the crisis, Wadsworth removed the treasured charter and hid it in safe keeping — in the arms of a stately white oak.

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