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Christian Kliegel's Found Objects Spark Controversy

By Lance Blomgren

The work of Vancouver-based artist Christian Kliegel is marked by an innate fascination for the subtle, yet patently absurd, structures of our various social institutions, as well as their surfeit of material waste-products. Much of his work also addresses notions of ownership, legality, and the role of the individual in our abstract systems of commerce, education, and city planning.

As a student at the Emily Carr Institute for Art and Design, Kliegel co-founded the Fred and Jock Gallery in his small studio space which, like many galleries, sold beer to offset expenses — defying college regulations about alcohol consumption. Against the ruling of city officials, Kliegel also constructed a massive rope ladder which connected the Granville Street bridge to Granville Island, resulting in near expulsion for possible public endangerment.

Recently, Kliegel exhibited a room-sized mound of shredded corporate paperwork — presumably sensitive documents — at Access Gallery. He liberated the mass from businesses on recycling day and used his artist fee to consult with a stock-market expert, make some investments, and share his newfound financial knowledge with others. This project, "Gloom, Boom and Doom," highlighted Kliegel's ongoing interest in finding spaces of negotiation among various typically discreet communities and cultural phenomena.

In June 2006, Kliegel's installation "Production Postings" opened at the Contemporary Art Gallery in Vancouver. Comprised of over 400 luminescent film set direction arrows with cryptic phrases and abbreviations, this project draws connections between the artistic traditions of found objects, pop art, visual poetry, and urban psychogeography.

Photo Courtesy of the Artist

The signs were collected from film sets around the city over a three-year period and were displayed prominently in the windows surrounding the gallery. Shortly after the opening, some film production companies began asking for their signs back. Kliegel and the gallery returned a number of the signs to their "rightful" owners. Black and white photocopies of the original signs now stand as monuments to their departure.

Kliegel agreed to meet me at a restaurant in East Vancouver to discuss the project.

Lance: What initially attracted you to the film set signs of "Production Postings"? Why did you take the first one?

Christian: I found the first one during a walk, a bright neon-coloured sign with a weird acronym. I didn't know what it was. I was attracted to this beautiful garbage-like thing that was laying on the ground. So I looked into it and figured out what it was — a marker for directing movie-set people around the city. I started seeing them all over town and became interested in cracking the codes of these signs, something that I really wasn't supposed to decode. I learned that signs like these used to be regularly stolen as movie souvenirs when they mentioned the name of the movie, so the film companies had to change the signs to try and sidestep that.

I liked the idea that the signs were designated for insiders in the movie business and not for others. They are bright, flashy things meant to direct attention, but at the same time, the general public is supposed to ignore them.

Lance: You started with discarded, thrown-out signs...but then you started taking them from their sites?

Christian: Yes, that seemed to become part of the project. I liked that they were in use, like a poster, that they had a purpose, even if it wasn't very clear.

Lance: Did these signs give you any sense or information of the sites being used? Did you follow the arrows?

Christian: For sure. I always back-tracked through the sets and crew parks. After three years I became initiated into the logistics of set locations. I figured out where all the main crew sets are in town. Certain workers go to one crew park, other people go to another. This kind of interaction is a larger part of the projects I do. I like when I, as an artist, am able to become part of other worlds that otherwise I'm not really allowed to be part of and which I know little about. I love becoming part of an "insider" world and then taking something away from it.

Lance: Apart from the overt sense of directional confusion suggested by the hundreds of arrows, the one thing that attracts me to your installation is the language of the signs. Some are simple declarations, others are inscrutable. They seem to suggest an alternative linguistic cosmology, a different way of mapping the city. Through your process, were you able to decipher the signs?

Christian: Yes. Trying to decode these signs became important to me. Through my research I found a number of websites for the community of people who seek out movie stars. These sites post the locations of films being shot in town. I learned, for example, that "The L-Word" is produced by CMF. I learned the names and codes of the different production companies. There are industry sources that can help you find these things out. I love discovering and deciphering new, specialized cultural languages.

Photo Courtesy of the Artist

Lance: How did you react when the film production companies began approaching the gallery to get their signs back?

Christian: I think myself and Jenifer Papararo and Christina Ritchie at the CAG expected some sort of reaction from the public — it's very much in the public eye in the windows of the gallery. But we were surprised by the consistency with which the film industry people wanted the signs back. I was disappointed that so many people from an industry which is supposed to be creative could only see the material value of these signs, the small amount of money they lost, and not the creative spirit of the project.

But then I began to really enjoy this interaction. I like that art can have a direct consequence and an involvement with other communities outside the art community. I like that you have to defend yourself, defend what you do. This kind of interaction creates a discussion about what it is we all do. It opens a reciprocal relationship. I guess I don't mind that if I am taking something away from them — the film production companies — they can take it back. This confrontation becomes more of a negotiation. It is part of the strategy of taking something. But I'm not trying to steal anything. I know the difference between stealing a car, or a bike, and taking (often forgotten) signs and discarded shredded paper.

Lance: But since these signs are in the public sphere, one could argue that these production companies have given up ownership; maybe they should be fined for littering?

Christian: That is an interesting irony of the project. The signs are literally put on the same gateposts that advertise shows or political events. The city workers go around and take these off immediately, and certainly some people get fined for doing this.

Lance: How many of the signs have been removed?

Christian: There have been three companies that asked for their signs back, but about 80% of the signs are still there unclaimed.

Lance: Can you give us any hints as to what you are working on now? Any upcoming projects?

Christian: I'm making a list of personalized license plates. I want to explore the signs of this communication, something that stems out of some of my previous work. I drive around the city and see a lot of these license plates. I'm interested in how people will pay money to come up with a way to define themselves in just a few letters. Once again, I find the ways in which these objects function linguistically engaging. So I've begun to collect and decipher them.

Lance: What do you mean by collect? Are you actually taking them?

Christian: No, just writing them down. I'm still figuring out what I'll do with this collection. But certainly, something that has come out of my recent work is an interest in the legal aspects of materials. Specifically, what I can take and what I can't. Currently I am looking to work with a lawyer to research more into property laws; who owns what in the public sphere, and the ramifications of taking certain things.