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Rewind: Daniel Olson

Oakville Galleries, Oakville

If you had pressed me for adjectives to describe Daniel Olson’s work before I saw his exhibition "Daniel Olson: Philosophical Moments" at the Centennial Square gallery last fall, my list would have included the words "playful," "whimsical," "nostalgic," even "giddy." But presentation is everything, and after looking at the familiar works inside the dimmed, musty room provided by the Centennial, I’ll have to add "menacing" to my Olson repertoire. Daniel Olson’s work has always flirted with the dark side. His disembowelled, banged-up toys, spooky, film noir–tinted performances and obsessive-compulsive bookworks remind the viewer that for every merrily tinkling chime there’s a big, funereal bell just waiting to ring. Place Olson’s pieces in a darkened concrete room under spotlights, and the morbid elements quickly and resolutely take over. Not that I minded—if anything, I felt I was getting to know Olson’s work all over again.

Among the works most transformed by the new surroundings were the video installation White Trash, from 1999, and the kinetic sculpture multiple A Sad and Beautiful World, from 1996.

White Trash—a vitrine containing sound mechanisms from toys (all coloured white) and a slow-motion video of Olson in a white shirt playing with the parts—went from a fun spoof of science and pop-culture archaeology to a Cronenberg-esque freak show, a medical instruction display complete with a gleaming selection of horrid, intestinal refuse. On the day I saw the show, I interrupted a lunch-hour tour of local visitors, all of whom found the installation frightening. Two had to leave the room.

Similarly, the rolling paper globe A Sad and Beautiful World, one of Olson’s first art toys publicly displayed in Toronto and a happy mascot to many galleries, became more like the evil, razor-toothed ball from the Phantasm slasher movie series. As the globe traced its way across the grey, murky floor, bumping into the unpleasantly surprised locals, I wondered how I ever missed its ankle-biting threat. Surely, I’m not that light sensitive. The key to this new reading of Olson’s oeuvre lies in the mesmerizing centrepiece of the exhibit, the 2001 video Love and Reverie. A 21-minute re-enactment of Ozias Leduc’s sentimental 19th-century painting L’enfant au pain (Boy With Bread), Love and Reverie features Olson as the famous boy—a boy forever condemned to stare at an empty soup bowl and single slice of bread, harmonica ready at his lips.

What was originally a simple homily to domestic contentment becomes, when brought to life, a disturbing portrait of unfulfilled, hesitant desire. Why doesn’t the boy eat the bread? Olson, dressed in appropriate peasant costume, remains unnervingly still throughout the video—making the boy’s/Olson’s reluctance (or trance?) even more perplexing, more pathetic. The already fog-thick dystemia is further clouded by the grating sound of listless, wheezy harmonica chords. Clearly, the poor boy has slipped into a catatonic state. A carnival haunted house on sedatives, "Philosophical Moments" is Olson’s strongest show to date. Unwilling to rest on petal-soft laurels, Olson has smartly wrapped his "best of" selection in thorny, needling briars.

Spring 2002

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