Stumbling into Treasure

To be honest, my expectations were not high. A Saturday in early April spent roaming around western Connecticut looking for a show called “Art at the Dump” in Cornwall — well, let’s just say I was in it for the road trip. A brief blurb had popped up in my email earlier in the week and I’d wrestled with the idea of going. On one hand, it was an art show where the central theme was reused materials, which is right up my ally. On the other hand…at the dump? In Cornwall? I figured at best it would be small town fare, a couple of sculptures, a few locals wandering around. At worst, it could be a kid craft explosion, with pipe cleaners and paper towel tubes everywhere. But they always say, nothing ventured, nothing blah, blah, blah. Anyway, it was gorgeous that Saturday, perfect driving weather. So I took a chance and off I went.

Marilyn Olsen: Cat

My mate and I leisurely meandered through Connecticut’s quiet back roads, windows down, enjoying the first burst of spring time air. We passed a herd of cows, calmly chopping away on their feed. I mooed at them. Just beyond them we spotted a small sign. “That’s it,” I said, and we turned the car down the dirt path. A large, air-plane hanger of a building stood in front of us. Large piles of sand, used to dust the roads in the winter sat behind it. A battalion of public works vehicles sat at the ready.

My mate squinted through the windshield. “This can’t be it.” Then we both spotted the hand painted sign hanging on the side of the building. “Art @ the Dump,” it proclaimed. He turned to me. “What have you gotten me into?” his eyes said.

I shrugged. We were already there, no turning back. We parked the car and got out cautiously, looking around to see if we were the only ones. What was immediately surprising is that quite a few people were milling about. A pair of women and a family of three were both coming from their cars, their steps much less hesitant than ours. We could hear voices bouncing from the space inside. They sounded light and friendly. This was promising.

We crept around the corner. A fluttering whirl caught my eye. A geometric spine of metal and washers twisted in the wind. Beside it, empty milk bottles and blue parking reflectors comfortably seesawed back and forth. Their forms were both clean and their movement direct, crisp and satisfying. As these two mobiles twisted in the warm spring breeze, I smiled smugly at my mate and tried to pretend like there was never any doubt in my mind.

We turned the corner and there, in the middle of the dump…was art. The building was exactly as it appeared from the outside: Dirty concrete floor, high concrete foundation and aluminum walls leaning against naked wooden beams. Along the back-most wall rolled more dunes of road sand. If not for the amazing specimens of human creativity through out, it would have been a mundane, blink-and-you-miss-it space.

But it wasn’t mundane that day. Make shift tables that lined the walls and filled the center of the room overflowed with colorful sculptures, and shadow boxes. The concrete walls disappeared behind the hanging paintings, collages, and photography. Our mouths dropped open.

We began to wander around, dazed, trying to take it all in. I went from piece to piece; shocked by the level of ingenuity and skill each required. An inked portrait of an old woman on a piece of recycled scrap metal stared out at me, her eyes defying the wrinkles on her face. On the other side of the room, a bundle of garden stakes and a Halloween mask had been transformed from their previous incarnations to a truly creepy, Beetlejuice type spider creation that looked like it would begin scuttling around at any minute. Adjacent to that, a dress form fused to a cello neck looked as sensuous and curved as music itself. And just beyond that, a hung a modge-podge of shoe-meets-picture-frame-meets-cherub mixed media collage so beautiful that it belonged in a church.

I walked around once, trying to absorb it all. Once my surprise began to mellow out, I started to look closer at the tags accompanying the pieces, curious to know who these artists were and where they came from. Not surprisingly, there were quiet a few from Connecticut, but people had come from all over the north east to show there. And as I inspected the tag, my shock began to regenerate. The prices that those pieces were going for were incredible. My favorite, the old woman on the scrap metal, was selling for $15. $15?! For an original piece of artwork? Unheard of! Most of the pieces followed suit, with the majority of them priced below $100.

I quickly began filling my mental shopping cart and rushed over to the main table. A woman sat behind a ledger, smiling at me kindly. “Can I help you?” she asked.

Just as I was about say I would buy the everything, a dark haired woman beside me asked “So I just put my sticker on the tag of the piece I want, and then I pay you?” I looked around, crushed. All my favorite pieces sported bright dotted stickers on their labels. I had come too late. I slumped away.

I pouted and I sulked as I looked around again, trying to see if any was left. The woman behind the ledger asked me if I’d like to vote for my favorite pieces and I agreed. Then, I decided that my best defense would be to know as much about the show as possible, so I could be there bright and early next year. So I cornered her and demanded she tell me everything. Gail Jacobsen, as her named turned out to be, was patient and kind and answered all my rambling questions.

I found out that the show is Gail’s baby, born from a casual conversation between herself and her husband. “There was this dump near our home and this guy, Art, used to work there. My husband would come home all the time saying ‘Art at the dump said this,’ and ‘Art at the dump said that.’” Gail, an artist herself (I spent quite a bit of time admiring her washboard cabinets before we spoke), had long been wanting to get a juried art show together. After hearing her husband, she thought, why not Art at the Dump?

“The first year it kind of came together by accident. We kind of rushed it, asked everyone to submit a piece, write down what they made it from and the price and then we had people just vote on them. And it worked out so well, we do it that way every year.”

Now in its eighth year, Art @ the Dump is going strong. “We have people coming from all over; people are here right when we open up.” I mentioned my dismay that I hadn’t come earlier, that I had missed out on buying some great, unique pieces. “Yeah, that does happen.” Gail nodded knowingly. “Some people come with their wallets out, ready to buy first thing.” We agreed that everything was incredibly reasonably priced. “Our first year we had about 12 artists showing around 50 pieces. This year we have 50 artists showing 200 pieces.” She surveys the scene, a look of pride on her face.

And she has the right to be proud. A quick look around showed how much enjoyment her show is bringing. A young couple peered at a collage, commenting quietly. A mother crouched down to her show her son a robot made out of cookie tins, two women ooohed and ahhed over a pair of lamps in the corner. And a family of three; mom, dad, and their teenage daughter strolled around the room, circular sticker in hand, looking to find that piece that’s meant for them. “The really great thing about this show,” Gail confided, “is its range. We have work done by school kids,” she gestured to a huge phoenix of a bird, made from bright red tissue paper. “And by famous artists. That piece over there,” she pointed to the dress form meets cello. “Is by Tim Prentice.” Who, has been shown all over the country for the last twenty years, including his kinetic sculpture in Bradley International Airport. His piece, incidentally, is one of two “expensive” pieces that I that saw at only $750. Even famous artists are affordable here.

I thanked Gail for her time and collected my slip of paper, and worked my way back over the space, trying to decide on my top three choices. As you can imagine, I struggled. I loved Lori Barker’s Present, Past, and Future, but then again, I was enthralled by Elizabeth Mullins Untitled shadow box. Not to mention every piece by Richard Griggs. I circled and recircled, writing things down and then scribbling them out. Finally, my mate and I conferred and I committed to my final three. I brought them up to Gail and she offered me an empty coffee can to tuck my ballot into. “Hope you had a good time,” she said.

“I loved it,” I sighed. My mate came up beside me and looked around, trying to appear casual.

“When does this usually open?” He asked.

I smiled a little smile, knowing that this was the ultimate compliment. Only 345 days to go till next year. PR

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