Charles Harlanās Cave is nothing if not simple. The show consists of one work, but itās a whammy: Pipe (2013), a piece of steel piping about 4.5m long, with a 3m diameter. Weighing close to a ton, it rests against one wall of the gallery with a dumb, brute presence, and is held in place with wood stoppers so it doesnāt roll over and crush any little children who choose to run around its curving, ribbed form (though that might do everyone a favour). Thin and hollow, itās like a culvert one would find in the suburbs, meaning it doubles as a creepy place in which to light fireworks, make out or dump the body parts of loved ones. Comically out of place in a gallery, Pipe is a deadpan, Duchampian joke rich with meaning and associations, proving that simple neednāt mean one-note.
Harlan was raised in Smyrna, Georgia, and his work exhibits a vernacular, domestic flair, as if the suburban housing tracts featured in Dan Grahamās Homes for America (1966) were taken apart and repurposed as elegant, redneck Minimalism. With Shingles (2011), for example, Carl Andreās floor-based metal works meet their working-class counterpart, as copper plates are exchanged for patterns of overlapping asphalt roofing tiles; Siding (2011), meanwhile, replaces Donald Juddās shiny metal cubes with the workās namesake ā and very plebeian ā exterior vinyl wallcovering found on many a tract house; and by simply lifting a marble countertop off the bathroom sink and onto the wall, Counter (2012) proves that even the slightest of gestures, such as a change of orientation and context, can render foreign something familiar ā the everyday as convincing art object. Similarly, with Pipe, itās as if one of Nancy Holtās Sun Tunnels (1976) was transported from the desert to this small, white cube gallery on the Lower East Side.
That Cave is concurrent with Jay DeFeoās Whitney retrospective is more than telling. DeFeo had to cut out part of a window and wall to remove her one-ton painting The Rose (1958ā66) from her studio. Harlan, dealing with an object of similar weight, had to hire a team of construction workers to completely disassemble the galleryās storefront, as well as the tree in front of it, and then to put it all back together again as if nothing had happened.
Equally industrial as Holtās work, though perhaps more refined-looking with its clean metal surface and, when struck, resonant timbre, Harlanās invasive culvert more closely pressures the thin distinction between rote object and institutionally legitimated artwork. Even if theyāre in the middle of nowhere, Holtās tunnels are art because the artist presents them as such; Pipe is equally authored and institutionalised. That itās a pipe is precisely the point. While itās a beautiful object, it illustrates how arbitrary āartā really is. The term may designate anything, from a painting to a pickle in a jar. The latter, displayed in the galleryās back office, is sold by Harlanās mother in her hardware store; it could be an artwork too, if he willed it.
This article was first published in the May 2013 issue.