Laziness in the Gallery

I read this article for ya.

Rue Ottawa smells vaguely of pot as I wander home through Cité du Multimédia in Montréal, underwhelmed by the art I just saw at an overwhelmingly art space, Fonderie Darling.

The former turn of the past century foundry is the perfect art space, with huge ceilings and rooms, spiral cast iron staircases, riveted beams covered in decades of paint now chipping, fantastic looking, totally sexy rust everywhere. I love that liminal space between Danish Modern and Industrial Revolution decrepitude. I would love to show at Fonderie, darling. And I have been to shows at Fonderie Darling before that were captivating and interesting.

This show was a lame duck.

I didn’t take a lot of pictures and I didn’t take names because I don’t want to embarrass anybody—because I love arts and artists, but y’all know who you are. And you need to, I don’t know, do something? Some work?

I climbed the spiral staircase to the upper floors, which are studded with private, rented studios, most of which were open tonight. Again, beautiful spaces, high ceilings, hardwood floors, white walls. White walls uncontaminated by art. 4”x5” sketches, or tiny amateurish paintings, or popsicle stick constructions (I kinda liked that one, actually) and spread out like rich neighbors that hate each other.

Oh! There’s a bunch of small rocks glued to a strip of wood on the floor. I have no idea what this is supposed to be and I’m not moved to figure it out. And there is no plaque.

I’m generally against plaques describing art. I like to know the materials used and know the name of the piece or the artist, but if there’s a long explanation that spells the whole thing out so I can understand it, I don’t understand that. Why make the art? Why not just show the plaque?

Is art supposed to be a joke that needs a paragraph explaining the punchline?

Everything so small and poorly done. Lots of monochrome. Lots of pencil. Lots of people who really can’t paint. The main takeaway I get from the open studios is that nobody can afford supplies. I suppose it’s all going to the rent—these rooms can’t be cheap.

The main exhibition space down spiral stairs had mainly emptiness, which was fine. The big thing was what looked like a linoleum floor ripped out of an old theater. Rising over it were candle-like tubules of wax flowers, hanging like a Calder mobile, arching in a neat row, against the high ceiling, transom windows glowing blue with the night sky. It was really quite beautiful. The space, that is. The ceiling.

What to do about this pesky art? Maybe if there were hundreds of candles hanging from the ceiling, enough to recontextualize the space. Shock and awe art is valid. But alas, no one can afford supplies. That or they’re relying on the plaque to do the work that the piece didn’t do, that the artist didn’t do.

It’s really easy to think things up. It’s much harder to execute. This is why AI is so popular. We’re lazy. AI could’ve spun this whole thing up in two minutes. It would look like somebody else’s work, but maybe it would have some density and energy?

One of the more successful things – I don’t know if you would call it a piece – was a cathedral-like structure, but much smaller, made out of sheet steel strips, cut and bent into supports attached to sheet rock, assembled to evoke the entrances and hallways of a church. And they had to flag it by adding a bunch of votive candles—obvious but kinda nice. Beautiful people lounging around the votive candles.

Beautiful people everywhere, really. Montréal is a city of beautiful people. Maybe the best thing about a show like this is that the beautiful people come out, dressed in their look-at-me best, laughing and smoking, drinking and joking, a few souls looking at the art, most looking at each other.

I stayed an hour and had a Tsingtso, and after I popped out, I popped in and said hi to my friend Mackenzie at Franklin’s on Saint Paul.

This weekend, go see a show at a gallery. Like the things you like. Read the plaque or not. Be ok with not getting the artist’s intention, because there won’t be a quiz. Go with a friend or a lover. Wander the street after, moving from street lamp to street lamp together. Breathe in the night and realize how lucky you are.