Aug 26th 2016

When you’re telling a story, you can start anywhere. You can start at the S, at the Y, at whatever punctuation is going to surround it. Today the period is in the middle and it’s a period of sadness.

While out at ACRE last month, we hosted (and almost hoisted) our opening on artist Philip Kaufmann’s truck. Hours of careful, balletic shuffling by Bob (the hale, hearty and heart-felt Chicago scrapper and co-owner of the Steuben campus) and his bobcat transformed a human height of wood stacks and a long pair of metal somethings into a makeshift inclined platform. Without apologies to Robert Smithson, it was both a non-site and quite a sight. As the truck lounged, its nose above ours and its bumper near the ground, Philip positioned a worm’s eye mirror to see the sticker being affixed (from beneath). For those who prefer a bumper’s eye view, a camera was installed inside the bumper and a small hole drilled into the sticker so one could watch along live to see what it feels like to become Trunk Show. A Cageian logic permeated the snacks, as Alex Narinskiy blindly tossed viewers a range of weird canned quaffs (several stripes of basement bargain local swill, generic root beers and La Croix) and Phil served up a range of crazy-topping’d ‘za squares straight from the wood-fired oven; each insisting that there are “no accidents.” It was the last night of a beautiful fortnight and we all stayed up late. Our pal Neal Vandenbergh, wearing his camp cutoffs and “wood guy” disguise, made us a fantastic new sandwich board which the beloved Virginia Aberle painted for us.

Beneath the California Blue Line Station (the confluence of California and Milwaukee)

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