I would like to zero in on a type of art show that is very specific to a certain layer on the art pyramid. A layer that is often not considered, maybe sort of invisible. Many young artists who romanticize community, the integrity of the artist, and or the lauding of creation for its own sake, might recognize this kind of exhibition, a small one of the humble variety. One conducted purely to garner the attendance of close friends and maybe friends of friends and some classmates from college. I attended something like this a few weeks ago at Oaklands Cone Shaped Top, a small unmistakably queer community hub disguised as a shop for zines, gifts, and art, with a corner carved out and built out from plywood for a turntable and some records.

As opposed to the complex hierarchies of galleries, collectors, aspiring career-artists, designers, dealers, or what have you that can sometimes make an art space feel so…surgical, these kinds of art shows shave the corners off the brick of ego that lies uncomfortably in the middle of the room at some art shows. The big ugly brick that makes people ask questions like, “Why make this?” or “Why is this worth $5,000?” or “What is the big deal about this abstract pencil drawing?” is dissolved, leaving a bunch of small pebbles for people to pick up and move around, chew on, tuck in their pockets, or admire like gems strewn on the floor. It feels like its for everyone, it feels like its for no one, it feels like it isn’t particularly exclusive, encoded, or shrouded in decadent admiration that the art falls short of. To get out of an overly fluffed out metaphor, the simplicity and humbleness of small exhibits like the one I went to at cone shaped topped remind me of why artists art.

This exhibit featured mainly two things, a print based on a scrapbook-journal of Arlo’s finds at a thrift store he worked at in Albany, New York and a short film made by Arlo and his friend Luca. I enjoyed the nod to the continued existence of what feels like a very Bay Area brand of admiration for old things, thrift finds, lettering, refuse, abandoned relics, or forgotten treasures. In the journal Arlo collected and taped tags he fawned over at his job, which he eventually decided to start collecting. They read the names of countries or New England towns (Wintuk, Hong Kong) that the clothes originated from, to fifty names for plastic thread (gore-tex, rayon, acrylic) and dated brand names (Crazy Horse, Cuddle Knits) featuring different type faces, logo designs, and fiber blends. The pure fascination with the charm of the details that make old things retain their magic was something that I liked to see elevated. For such a simple idea, it set off my imagination in terms of the part of me that wants to log, preserve, and anthropologize the secret encounters of the everyday in an urban landscape re:abandoned bart tickets, found handwritten notes, bottle caps. Outside the venue were individually packaged prints of the tags arranged haphazardly on the page. White paper with blue ink suggests this print was a cyanotype.

The other part of this show was a small monitor set up with two sets of headphones and a stool with a ten minute film playing on a loop. It’s sort of a documentary about an art installation that artist Arlo did with a friend, Luca McGrath. The film starts out with Arlo and Luca in short clips making shy attempts at introducing the projects and disassembling any resemblance to anything recognizable as a classic YouTube video. After a singe attempt at officiating what they are doing, Luca interrupts to point out how awkward it feels and the two can be heard laughing themselves off screen. The film goes on to splice stills of materials from scrap yards with working in a garage and hanging out, playing with old toys or watching soccer. The film starts to find a rhythm as the stars of the film themselves start to solidify their idea. Making calls to laundromats for dryer lint injects the other errands of their sculpture in progress with some absurdness as they bend chicken wire, cut scrap wood, and begin to arrange a standing sculpture of a small platform hung with zip ties, just big enough to stand under, and beneath it are three mounds of chicken wire covered in dryer lint. The film ends with them talking to passers by and offering them t shirts commemorating the sculptures erection. Outside the two chatted with friends and the feeling was familial, warm and cheerful. I was reminded of what so many artist come from, and the value of coming back to it, that is, community, the urge to create, and the sentimentality of each others practice to ourselves as we witness them.

that’s a link to the movie ^