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It is found in the middle of the kind of long, concrete, administrative-looking hallway that you might imagine exists in the bowels of Disney World, stripped here of any cheerful flourish. This gallery has no sign to announce itself and is only slightly larger than a broom closet. It is never open to the public, usually locked. And yet, the Transportation Security Administration, which maintains the room, does not see it as an art gallery, or its contents as art.
And what stuff it is. Inside this room, on shelves and in bins, were Swiss Army knives, hunting knives, box cutters, steak knives, cake knives, hammers, hammers with built-in wrenches, staple guns, scissors with custom handles, a bow with no arrow , lava lamps, brass knuckles — anything you might try to slip through security in a carry-on but security has decided is a potential threat to airline safety.
Actually, considering the number of infrequent flyers who move through airports at the holidays, seemingly unaware of TSA bag restrictions, some of us might even be unwitting contributors to this unintentional gallery of obliviousness. Ruhde stepped aside to let me get a good look. We considered the room and its stuff, each piece torn from its original context and given a different life here: A power drill, separated from its bit, stripped of its power by another power.
A stash of novelty Blackhawks hockey sticks bundled in a corner — happy memories held in detention. The line between a simple room full of junk and an art show devoted to found objects is thin — what exactly are we seeing here? Like any compelling art show, the pieces in this quasi-gallery hold together as a unit, raising questions, contradictions, and, here, issues of context and ownership, terrorism and taste. Locked away in the recesses of an airport, it holds more than 3.
