Phin Jennings

At first, this show seems distinctly uninviting to anyone not deeply in the fold with today’s art scene. It fills three floors with austere works by artists I mostly haven’t heard of. Found objects, subtle installations and elliptical messages abound here; it’s enough to draw a groan from any contemporary art cynic. In the first room, dodging between Gilli Tal’s installation of looming streetlamps and hearing what sounds like an urban field recording by Solomon Garçon, you might feel like you’re navigating a party full of strangers. No artwork is given any context beyond a spreadsheet-like booklet containing the artist’s biographical details and the artwork’s medium, date of creation and exhibition history.  That last, seemingly unimportant detail brings the show to life. Reading through the handout’s fourth column, you’ll see the names of a number of grassroots artist-run exhibition spaces. Almost every artist in the show has been involved in or shown their work at such a venue. Many are now defunct and I’m sure none were ever as well-appointed as this gallery. It is this detail – call it the show’s DIY-pedigree – that animates Fake Barn Country. This is an exhibition about exhibitions This is an exhibition about exhibitions and about exhibition-making as an act of passion, generosity and curiosity shared between artists. Every image, sound and object here is like a mushroom grown from a vast, international and intergenerational network of mutual support and encouragement th