AL: He did an installation of things he built, and he carved a bathtub out of cardboard that was mounted on the ceiling and held by a foot carved out of a dictionary. Then there was a really fantastic Smiling Machine with a rubber band that went like this [uses hands to demonstrate concepts of widening and narrowing/opening and closing] and that was connected to a motor in the basement. It was really erotic and weird. It slapped against the floor. It broke halfway through, but it was really Deleuze-ian. I don’t think he thought of it that way, but to me it was really like a Desiring Machine. Then there was a small drawing. Oh, and then an old-fashioned rug made out of paper tulips. It was just a very intelligent, very materials-based show.

CK: What was Cornershop’s most glorious moment?

AL: I don’t think it’s one moment; it’s more thinking back I feel incredible about it. Lara [Odell] reminded me that I didn’t always like it while I was doing it, but I forget all that. I don’t think of it as one thing; I think it’s nice to look at it as, “That happened for 3 years, wow!”

CK: OK, so sustained glory….

AL: But sometimes it pissed me off; I don’t want to pretend that it didn’t.

CK: What kinds of things would frustrate you?

AL: The day would be coming and I’d have to be down there mopping the floor and doing everything and I’d feel antisocial and I’d think, “Oh god, all these people are coming, why do they have to come over!?” I didn’t really mean it though. And, I wouldn’t want to come, but that’s just how I am because I’m kind of,a pushmepullyou monster , and I’ve been that way since I was a child, so….

CK: What way!?

AL: Well, just kind of wanting social activity and then not wanting it. (You might not include some of this in
the interview).

CK: This is a cheesy question, you can choose not to respond, but if you had to pick a metaphor for Cornershop, what would you pick and why?

AL: I don’t know how good I am at metaphors, let me think…I don’t have a metaphor, but I think Elizabeth Licata did something quite good in that article [for Artvoice, a free newsweekly in Buffalo]. I wrote her an email saying, “I’m kind of just having parties at my house.” She picked up on that and pointed out that it read as if Cornershop wasn’t thought out, but that actually it was quite thought out. I wanted both of those ideas in it: the casualness of the energy—as if something would just come up (although occasionally that happened) , but that’s a little bit bullshit because of course it was obviously planned and all this work went into it (this isn’t really answering your question at all, but…): there was all the organization of getting people to come, there was all the press, there was designing the invitations, there was all the graphics, all the posters, there was postering, there was mailing them out, there was hosting the people who would come—so, it was a tremendous amount of work. I think sometimes people didn’t know how much work went into it, because of the party feel.

CK: This is something I talk about all the time with people who put on events: the actuality of the amount of labor that goes into making things happen and its relative invisibility to those not directly engaged in the labor. Do you think it’s impossible to comprehend all of the labor and effort behind the production of an event or a space if you never have experienced it yourself, or do you feel that people comprehend quickly the amount of work and that’s why it seems the majority don’t take the task upon themselves? Is it like there’s a secret club of people who realize the labor and are committed to it v. all the others; how would you address that? [The popular expression “labor of love” is apropos here.]

AL: Again, it comes to personality. I think there’s a little bit of both; people just don’t realize the labor because it’s quite hidden. Seeing Steven Eastwood [staging the OMSK Roam event in London in July 2004]: he was working, yes, but on another level, you couldn’t see everything that was happening; he was having to deal with so much. The labor just has to be hidden, because it wouldn’t work if you were spilling it out all over the place. You do sacrifice your own work as you do it, and that’s why the space or event has to become your own work. Otherwise, why are you doing it?—which, I guess, would be different than being a pure curator. Now (with projects I’ve organized in England), theoretical context more directly influences how I compose an event, which is quite different than what I was doing with Cornershop, and I guess that’s more of a traditional curatorial stance. Im not sure how I feel about it.

CK: Since you closed Cornershop when you moved from Buffalo to England, would you say that you translated or transposed it into other activities, and, if so, what are they?

AL: I haven’t done anything like Cornershop. I miss it a lot, and think that I would do something similar in the future. But I have concentrated more on what I do, my own work, and then I have organized stuff, but I’ve done it in collaboration and have a more theoretical and planned idea (Hybrid Discourse with Joasia Krysa www.i-dat.org/projects/hybrid)—doing conferences and symposiums—that’s because I’m more officially part of institutions. I think I’ve transposed the cornershop energy into teaching: the way I curate classes and the way I bring people in when there’s money is very much like how I did Cornershop. Also I really try and support students creating happenings in the way I was supported in Buffalo. But I’ve definitely tried to organize things outside [institutional spaces], but yeah, they’re quite different.

CK: Is there anything else?

AL: When I ran Cornershop, I did so because I just had to do it—and now I’m quite interested in placing it—I can’t answer all the questions you’re asking, because in some ways I’m still thinking. Just now, reading the Julie Ault book about NY alternative arts spaces in the 6o's to 80s made me think about contextualizing Cornershop alongside things I didn’t know about but that obviously were around.

CK: Could you be more specific?

AL: I’m thinking more about site, like Cornershop as a site in Buffalo. And site as not only a particular point but a convergenge of context. You do what you do and you reflect back on something. I think I’m being more critical about it now, but I still see it as something that was evolving—it didn’t have some big career goal to it, to what it was going to become, and that was really important. The big goal of Cornershop was that it should go for as long as it was fun, and if it wasn’t fun, it should die.