Tuesday, July 13, 2010

The Invisible Dog

The Invisible Dog, a gallery located on 51 Bergen Street, is really the something special the neib needed. Their story goes as such- the space was a factory, as were many on this particular block (I remember as a very young child walking past the cheese factory everyday on the way to school- and it smelling exactly how you would expect a cheese factory to smell, like kinda/almost good, and really smelly. This factory doesn't exist anymore, someone now lives where it once stood. I often muse to myself as I walk by "Does the space still smell like cheese inside...?") and this factory made many goods, but as the economy and the landscape of manufacturing changed the only thing the factory continued to produce, up until 2006, was those invisible dog leashes that you can buy at Disneyworld. Improv Everywhere used the leftover leashes for a fantastic and good humored prank a little under a year ago.
Now the factory is a wonderfully patina'd gallery space, hosting some really fantastic work. On the first floor was a mish mosh of all different kinds of work. I don't know if it was the space, the installation, or the curation- probably a combination of all three, but even though the works were not cohesive, it worked viewing them all together.

Off to the side was a nice group of work made out of old metro cards. This one I thought was particularly good advice:

One of the windows had a small step ladder, and I was up for a mini adventure-It led to a bizarre garden space.
I fell in love with this lamp, and the wall in which it was hung- and the mossy neglect. I know neglect is a word that usually has a negative meaning, but I felt there was no better way to show off the beauty of this wall than to leave it alone for many seasons. Let the Spring water find its ways into the cracks, and the freezing Winter chill expand the water droplets, growing the cracks, let the Fall spores find good, solid homes in the nooks and the Summer heat nurture the moss and the mold.
Somewhere inside me a hippie poet is fighting to get out.
And since we're talking about old relics, check out this sign I spotted on the way to third floor. Obviously from days of yore.

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