A+D Gallery
Pass It On: Connecting Contemporary Do-It-Yourself Culture

He was a cold critic. He was possibly a she-critic. He was possibly a ghost-critic. A disillusioned, fatally aneurysmed I-Banker-turned-anarcho-syndicalist with so much more to say. He was possibly- no, he was probably- a student with too much to say. A student, but of the undead sort. A fellow Lane Relyean, perhaps. He was possibly a supra-student. A Lane Relyea?

Regardless, when Industry of the Ordinary encouraged the he/she/ghost-critic to offer his/her/its thoughts on their
(photo-)documented projects, he/she/said ghost scoffed; the work was “...very played out & boring.”
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Ghost, as I read what you had written, I held in my right hand various DIY literature and a seed ball. Did you take a seed ball, you fiend? Or, assuming you are, in fact, from the netherworld and your sinews and such have long since rotted away, did you stare longingly at the earthen pot and curse and moan and spit?

I reread your words. I heard you convince yourself of the necessity of the “very.” Nasally constructed conceit. A couple in their mid-thirties came up on my left. I ridiculed your arrogance. You found the work “…very played out and boring.” OK, tough guy. What about the un-you’s who would view it?

I countered your dismissal of the projects with their potential significance for couple-on-my-left’s hypothetical ten year-old daughter. An appeal to the impressionable. To radical education. To revelation. Somewhat overdone, granted. Any un-you would suffice. But, really. What, exactly, were you criticizing? What did you expect to find in the exhibit? What did you want to find?

We’re not so different, you and I. I’m unforgiving. I may not have vomited in Oh-give-me-DIY-that-affects-the-unaffected! indignation as I stood before the "DIY Monster iPod Protector," but I did take one of its accompanying fliers so that I would remember its disappointing presence in the exhibit.

I see through you, ghost. You lauded Pomegranate Radical Health Collective. You watched Pomegranate’s video interview on the wall of dangling iPods, which at first intimidated you. The earnestness of the interviewee won you over. You looked through the literature on the table behind you. I’m sure you saw the pamphlet on cervical self-exams?

You surveyed the gallery.
1.) A computer mouse equipped with a fan.
2.) A golf club that, well, was more than a golf club.

Infantile.

3.) "Bike Machines- Power to (& from) the People"
4.) "Solar microtransmitter: Modification of design" by Tetsuo Kogawa

Gratuitous. Insultingly impractical, especially a mere five feet from a color-coordinated discussion about cervical health.

Scott Reinhard’s "Book Camera" may have been a rather obvious selection for the exhibit but at least it hinted at dissent. What of extralegal abortions and undiagnosed venereal diseases? What of structural inequities and resistant practices? Why wasn’t more- why wasn’t all- of the exhibit as politically salient as Pomegranate? A chorus pleaded with the works, rebuked them: Say something that needs to be said! Say something that hasn’t been said! Say something that can’t be said! In the name of all that is holy, at least say something new! That’s what angered you about the Industry of the Ordinary pieces. You’d heard it all before.

I too moved through the gallery accompanied by a reproachful chorus. Not your chorus, specifically, but an unrelenting chorus just the same. The altos shrilled as I edged passed the first and then the second guitar-making station and the "Remote Control Sweeper" and and and and. Yet, when I read your abrupt dismissal of Industry of the Ordinary’s efforts, I silenced the chorus. The curtain dropped violently. Your words embarrassed me.

Hauling around a personal wardrobe for a day, now that was a kidney shot at aggressive consumerism that I had yet to see delivered outside of a small group discussion in a high school Religion course, but some of Industry’s other projects? Why, they were just…ordinary.

I had entered A+D gallery fitted with the details of the show’s pretensions. There was the coat rack. There were the poorly crafted innovations. There were thousands of dollars of electronic thingamabobs. There were more poorly crafted innovations for more electronic thingamabobs. The designs looked cheap. The backstories seemed contrived. Yet, I had entered A+D gallery certain that I would disagree with these criticisms, especially because of my resistance to the aesthetic, economic, and even technical arguments propping them up. Maybe I would disagree with A+D’s efforts, but it wouldn’t be because of the uninviting layout of the gallery or the ergonomic clumsiness of its selections.

After all, the show was about empowerment. Possibility. Opposition. Community. Open dialogue. This is what I had convinced myself at least. With Pomegranate’s video interview serving as my introduction to the gallery, I felt affirmed. Suddenly, I was ready to welcome even those juvenile inventions that I had been warned of. Yet, when I found several unambiguously political guides, with titles such as “Your Rights to Demonstrate and Protest” and “Dealing With the Police: General Guidelines for Activists,” littered on the counter that braced the far left wall of the gallery, my confidence in my understanding of the exhibit faltered.

Was A+D offering gallery space so that advocates of agency or awareness (however defined) could present their efforts, or was it opening up gallery space to simply present the efforts of said advocates? That is, was Pass It On: Connecting Contemporary Do-It-Yourself Culture intended to be political? Or, was it intended to capture the political? If even the once-was or the at-least-proposes-to-be political? Was the exhibit only political insofar as it showcased the political?

The cynical responses on Industry of the Ordinary’s message boards suggested that the later was true, and I can’t say that I disagreed. It was unsettling to move through a space so laden with communication. But, what was more unsettling was the tranquility of the space. There was no cacophony, only the hushed voices of the guitar-making instructors. The DIY materials and resources were sacred relics of resistance, not harbingers of revolutions, even if the careful organization of the gallery space sought to facilitate engagement. Because of this disconnect, I had to resist criticizing selections for their righteousness, for their banality, for their form…and not always successfully. I see your game, ghost.

Yes, I took a seed ball. I refused to join your lot on the Industry of the Ordinary message boards, and I took a goddamn seed ball. I hesitated at first, but I took one. Maybe the fliers that I took held only entertainment value, but the seed ball was a piece of practicality, of practice. I fully intended to give it a toss, to “Fling [me] Some Green,” but I, admittedly, have yet to do so. And, yes, when I saw its little brown self this morning hidden amongst receipts, earrings, and eyeliners on the bookcase behind my bedroom door, I had forgotten its promise.

A revolution abandoned. It works well though, sitting on the coils of my red stone necklace.