After peering cautiously around the corner of 11th Avenue and 23rd Street, I carefully stepped into Honey Space, a new art gallery in Chelsea. A stone’s throw from prestigious galleries like PaceWildenstein and Matthew Marks, as well as established fashion houses such as Balenciaga and Commes des Garcons, the slightly dilapidated warehouse that Honey Space calls home claims no such glamour or renown.
The gallery sits on Manhattan’s hectic West Side Highway, across the street from the commercial nirvana that is Chelsea Piers. Its raison d’etre is somewhat subversive— rent, electricity and gas–free, the gallery is left open and unmanned during the day and is operated on a system akin to a prep–school honor code.
I stepped into the gallery on a blustery Friday morning. Honey Space’s website is not particularly forthcoming, and I was somewhat unsure of what I would discover. I was surprised to see a man seated at a small table to my left, as the gallery’s website proudly and prominently states that it is meant to “operate without any staff.” He caught my eye, smiled, offered to answer any questions I might have, and returned his focus to his laptop screen.
I walked across the warped and peeling floorboards, which I later realized were in fact large sheets of thick oak tag laid over and concealing tiny glimpses of Formica floors. Not imbued with oak tag, much of the ceiling was exposed, with beams, electric wiring and a few inexplicable, unused hooks evident. In some of the corners—spaces where wall joined with ceiling—the remnants of former intricate, porcelain–hued engravings were teasingly perceptible.
The gallery’s one room was filled with objects d’art (albeit questionable ones), and I began to wander around, studying certain pieces that caught my attention. There was a discrete cardboard box labeled FRAGILE, and filled to the brim with small, evenly cut snippets of paper, each covered with the words “I am sorry.” In the back corner, I found a pile of mundane objects, including Jon Stewart’s The Daily Show with Jon Stewart Presents America (The Book): A Citizen’s Guide to Democracy Inaction, along with a few other books, upon which a chewed–away apple core, a florescent pink lighter, and an American flag–patterned bong rested, surrounded by a mass of strategically strewn jelly beans. Across one of the walls were twinkly white Christmas lights, gracefully and brightly spelling out the word DRUNK.
As I meandered through the room, I found myself in a Duchampian moment of insecurity, beginning to question everything I saw. Which pieces around were indeed artistic áccoutrements and which were simply things found in any rundown warehouse? Were the clusters of unused nails embedded in the rear wall remnants of past items hung, or perhaps a satirical, R. Mutt–ian statement on the emptiness and existence of art? Were the very oak tag floorboards I was crossing art? I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland: I had stepped through the Looking Glass, and no longer knew how to interpret or understand the things that I saw.
I wound my way back to the front of the room, where the enigmatic man took notice of me once more, and stood to introduce himself, handing me an odd cork business card. His name was Thomas Beale, sculptor and curator/mastermind behind Honey Space. He eagerly began to describe the gallery, informing me that current exhibit was called “Object Salon.” The only parameters he gave to the artists featured, he said, blue eyes twinkling, was that their works must be “three dimensional works which meet the size and weight requirements of international carry–on luggage.” Perhaps assuming that such a curious piece of information stood for itself, or believing that such standards could be had at any art exhibit he continued without any further explanation. With my mind wandering on international air travel, he explained that he typically preferred not to have staff in the gallery, but, alas, the nature of this exhibit precluded his ideal—some of his more frustratingly grounded artists would not consent to leaving their work unattended. He additionally informed me with a chuckle that no, the jellybeans in the corner were not glued to the floor.
He paused our conversation to answer his cell phone at one point and told me that someone was coming momentarily to deliver a new sculpture. As I stood there, noticing that I could see my breath in the frosty gallery, I watched him run out to meet a woman wearing thick, black glasses, sitting in a taxi. She handed him a box, and he came back into the room, animatedly asking me if I wanted to see a new sculpture. He set the box down on his small desk, inadvertently knocking over a small pewter pitcher of milk, splattering the white liquid over the desk, and in Jackson Pollock–like drips and blotches across his boots and the floor. Apologizing, he left me alone in the warehouse as he ran next door to locate a towel.
Feeling strangely powerful and free, I contemplated the fact that I, shockingly, could grab anything I wanted and run with it. I decided to save felonies for my next trip to Chelsea, and instead accidentally kicked over an odd Halloween mask–like head, placed incomprehensibly on the floor in the center of the room. Rapidly growing red with embarrassment, and grateful that I was alone in the gallery, I decided to stand still until Tom returned.
When he re–entered the room, he informed me to my surprise that there were in fact fifty art works in the gallery. In my naiveté, I would have most likely placed the number at half of that—apparently, the nails in the wall must have been art. I strained to hear much of what he said to me over the noise and commotion of the less–than–picturesque West Side Highway, as three other patrons entered the gallery.
Eventually, I bade good–bye to Tom and Honey Space, tightly wrapping my scarf around me as I walked out into the only slightly colder street. I wended my way back to the subway, contemplating serious questions of the meaning of art, and less serious ones, such as whether to transfer trains at Port Authority or Columbus Circle. As I sat on the subway, I realized that the gallery in and of itself had been more meaningful than the art it housed. Honey Space and even Tom had left a far more indelible impression upon me than “Object Salon” had. Like Alice, I had been awoken from the bizarre yet educative, cocoon–like dream that was my trip to Honey Space. Hopefully, I thought, as I ran my finger over Tom’s card, I wouldn’t forget it by tomorrow morning.
SOPHIA MERKIN is a freshman in Columbia College majoring in History, and a Staff Writer for The Current. She blushes ridiculously easily, and can be reached at sam2192@columbia.edu