Tanco at this time has three meanings:
1. Tanco is a real geographic inspirational location.
2. Tanco means art made inadvertently by workmen.
3. Tanco is a deeply attentive state of mind inspired by 1 & 2.
1. Tanco is a real geographic inspirational location.
2. Tanco means art made inadvertently by workmen.
3. Tanco is a deeply attentive state of mind inspired by 1 & 2.
I stumbled upon this private location that, for certain reasons, I can’t disclose. It’s a space I used to spend time in and enjoy merely for its seclusion and peaceful surroundings. Then one day, I entered the space and it had been transformed. Twelve distinct, though unmarked, clusters of earth, stone, wood, plastic, rubber, metal, trees, mesh, plant life, and all manner of matter had been precisely and superbly placed around the perimeter, as if proudly showcasing these creative mounds. It immediately felt to me like a gallery housing twelve art installations—but better than a gallery, as it allowed things galleries can’t: you can sit on the exhibits, touch them, get as close as you like, and truly interact.
It is compositionally complex; the contrasting textures and layers feel inspired. It contains recurring visual themes that seem cohesive and stylistically considered. The interplay between organic and industrially made materials feels exciting and intentional while being visually thrilling purely within the realm of total abstraction. The fact that it isn’t intended to be pleasing gives it a matter-of-fact confidence, and the functional nature of the space imbues it with a balance of chaos and order that feels deeply satisfying. The layering and placement of elements evoke a feeling of literal power and might, suggesting its construction methods are beyond the possibilities of mere human strength or diligence over time. The work implies some kind of machine is being adopted as the means to place these exhibits.
Tanco is flooded with natural light; then a cloud passes, and the lighting suddenly changes. Elements move in the breeze; animals like rabbits, cats, squirrels, and birds emerge, and insects make habitats within each exhibit. The space is in a constant state of change and surrounded by a beautiful variety of trees. The Tanco Curators/Unknown Artists—unknown even to themselves—are not trying to create art; they are simply doing their job, serving some purpose of mystical organization unknown to me. It’s the work of maintenance and groundsmen providing a practical function of organization which, as a byproduct, has created one of the most refreshing and invigorating art experiences I’ve had.
Art often loses definition, fidelity, and dynamics the closer we inspect it, but in Tanco, it increases. Hidden levels of style, nuance, and seemingly purposeful placement emerge; contrasting color, texture, and shape begin to flaunt themselves, continuously rewarding the viewer’s dedication to closer inspection.
Nearby to Tanco, though not visible from Tanco, stands a defunct prefabricated hut that the Unknown Artists referred to as Tenko years ago, referencing its aesthetic similarity to the Japanese prisoner of war camp depicted in the 80s TV drama Tenko, created by Lavinia Warner, which ran from 1981-1985. Over time, through mispronunciation, Tenko became Tanko, and eventually, the name migrated over and became associated with the space in question rather than the nearby prefabricated staff quarters/costume department. When I discovered this inspirational space already had a unique and distinctive name, my creative instincts dictated that Tanco be spelled with a C rather than a K—perhaps because at that point I was particularly inspired by the idea of creating a company. I’m not sure exactly, but it just felt right that art made by tractor suited the spelling with a C.
Subsequently, in an uncanny instance of serendipity while searching online, curious to see if anything else shared the name Tanco, I came across Tanco Autowrap—a company solidifying that the word Tanco was undeniably destined to be associated with tractors making remarkable art. I urge you to search “Tanco Autowrap” on YouTube and watch videos of their equipment in action. If, like myself, you’re from a built-up area and unfamiliar with farm life, you might be astounded by the high level of visual poetry Tanco Autowrap brings to the wrapping of hay bales. Passing fields populated by tightly wrapped black or white bales, I’d often appreciated the abstract beauty of swollen, shiny cylindrical shapes juxtaposed against the natural landscape but had never considered how mesmerizing their production could be. Seeing Tanco’s machinery perform the ultra-beautiful rotational dance of elegant functionality felt like a dream. In honor of my appreciation for the brand, here’s a brief piece of non-paid promotion:
TANCO AUTOWRAP: EXPERTS IN YOUR FIELD
From the very first inception, we’ve used innovative designs and processes to create machinery highly regarded for consistency, durability, and uncompromising quality. Along the way, we’ve patented dozens of game-changing innovations, positioning Tanco as one of the most respected and responsive brands in the agricultural world.
Back to Tanco, the space—I have been eagerly tracking its development for roughly two and a half years now; the original twelve sections have changed, merged, separated, reconnected, and significantly overgrown in that time.
For example, sections five and six used to be one larger version of section five. Then one day, the Tanco Curators/Unknown Artists destroyed half of this section with some kind of large bulldozing action (I later discovered this was done by a tractor with a digger attachment), and in this act of destruction, created section six. This brutality, which had previously seemed perfect, reminded me of my personal commitment to accept life on life’s terms. Once I did, appreciating this new section for what it was, a star was born. Section six became one of my personal favorites, taking on the destructive quality of its creation. There were specters of dread emerging from this piece—a dead ghost, a tiny anguished screaming head in a protruding branch, and a haunting figure at the top of the mound reminiscent of Mulholland Drive’s diner scene, made of mud and branches thick with red leaves as hair. Usually, my attention in Tanco lies outside human facial recognition in inanimate objects, drifting contentedly within total abstraction and childlike wonder.
Since then, section six has undergone many transformations, pervasive nettle growth, and abundant willow shoots. The mammoth arrival of willow occurred during my personal hiatus from Tanco due to family reasons requiring me to leave the country for six months. This addition included beautiful woven willow armchairs and a tray-table crafted by a talented willow artisan, briefly offering a wonderful way to sit and enjoy the environment. Now, these items press tightly into the earth, crushed in an act of nihilistic destruction, beginning a new life of aesthetic non-functional function.
Thus far, my approach to Tanco has, and most likely should remain, that of a witness. I will continue publishing these developments periodically within Vague New World. The future of Tanco is uncertain due to tangible redevelopment plans, making capturing these spontaneous moments of creative flair essential.
Tanco always brings my mind back to abstraction and childlike wonder. It calms yet excites me, preparing me as an artist to notice poignant moments throughout the day. It continuously rewards dedication to closer inspection, driving my desire to share this fulfilling perspective.
It is compositionally complex; the contrasting textures and layers feel inspired. It contains recurring visual themes that seem cohesive and stylistically considered. The interplay between organic and industrially made materials feels exciting and intentional while being visually thrilling purely within the realm of total abstraction. The fact that it isn’t intended to be pleasing gives it a matter-of-fact confidence, and the functional nature of the space imbues it with a balance of chaos and order that feels deeply satisfying. The layering and placement of elements evoke a feeling of literal power and might, suggesting its construction methods are beyond the possibilities of mere human strength or diligence over time. The work implies some kind of machine is being adopted as the means to place these exhibits.
Tanco is flooded with natural light; then a cloud passes, and the lighting suddenly changes. Elements move in the breeze; animals like rabbits, cats, squirrels, and birds emerge, and insects make habitats within each exhibit. The space is in a constant state of change and surrounded by a beautiful variety of trees. The Tanco Curators/Unknown Artists—unknown even to themselves—are not trying to create art; they are simply doing their job, serving some purpose of mystical organization unknown to me. It’s the work of maintenance and groundsmen providing a practical function of organization which, as a byproduct, has created one of the most refreshing and invigorating art experiences I’ve had.
Art often loses definition, fidelity, and dynamics the closer we inspect it, but in Tanco, it increases. Hidden levels of style, nuance, and seemingly purposeful placement emerge; contrasting color, texture, and shape begin to flaunt themselves, continuously rewarding the viewer’s dedication to closer inspection.
Nearby to Tanco, though not visible from Tanco, stands a defunct prefabricated hut that the Unknown Artists referred to as Tenko years ago, referencing its aesthetic similarity to the Japanese prisoner of war camp depicted in the 80s TV drama Tenko, created by Lavinia Warner, which ran from 1981-1985. Over time, through mispronunciation, Tenko became Tanko, and eventually, the name migrated over and became associated with the space in question rather than the nearby prefabricated staff quarters/costume department. When I discovered this inspirational space already had a unique and distinctive name, my creative instincts dictated that Tanco be spelled with a C rather than a K—perhaps because at that point I was particularly inspired by the idea of creating a company. I’m not sure exactly, but it just felt right that art made by tractor suited the spelling with a C.
Subsequently, in an uncanny instance of serendipity while searching online, curious to see if anything else shared the name Tanco, I came across Tanco Autowrap—a company solidifying that the word Tanco was undeniably destined to be associated with tractors making remarkable art. I urge you to search “Tanco Autowrap” on YouTube and watch videos of their equipment in action. If, like myself, you’re from a built-up area and unfamiliar with farm life, you might be astounded by the high level of visual poetry Tanco Autowrap brings to the wrapping of hay bales. Passing fields populated by tightly wrapped black or white bales, I’d often appreciated the abstract beauty of swollen, shiny cylindrical shapes juxtaposed against the natural landscape but had never considered how mesmerizing their production could be. Seeing Tanco’s machinery perform the ultra-beautiful rotational dance of elegant functionality felt like a dream. In honor of my appreciation for the brand, here’s a brief piece of non-paid promotion:
TANCO AUTOWRAP: EXPERTS IN YOUR FIELD
From the very first inception, we’ve used innovative designs and processes to create machinery highly regarded for consistency, durability, and uncompromising quality. Along the way, we’ve patented dozens of game-changing innovations, positioning Tanco as one of the most respected and responsive brands in the agricultural world.
Back to Tanco, the space—I have been eagerly tracking its development for roughly two and a half years now; the original twelve sections have changed, merged, separated, reconnected, and significantly overgrown in that time.
For example, sections five and six used to be one larger version of section five. Then one day, the Tanco Curators/Unknown Artists destroyed half of this section with some kind of large bulldozing action (I later discovered this was done by a tractor with a digger attachment), and in this act of destruction, created section six. This brutality, which had previously seemed perfect, reminded me of my personal commitment to accept life on life’s terms. Once I did, appreciating this new section for what it was, a star was born. Section six became one of my personal favorites, taking on the destructive quality of its creation. There were specters of dread emerging from this piece—a dead ghost, a tiny anguished screaming head in a protruding branch, and a haunting figure at the top of the mound reminiscent of Mulholland Drive’s diner scene, made of mud and branches thick with red leaves as hair. Usually, my attention in Tanco lies outside human facial recognition in inanimate objects, drifting contentedly within total abstraction and childlike wonder.
Since then, section six has undergone many transformations, pervasive nettle growth, and abundant willow shoots. The mammoth arrival of willow occurred during my personal hiatus from Tanco due to family reasons requiring me to leave the country for six months. This addition included beautiful woven willow armchairs and a tray-table crafted by a talented willow artisan, briefly offering a wonderful way to sit and enjoy the environment. Now, these items press tightly into the earth, crushed in an act of nihilistic destruction, beginning a new life of aesthetic non-functional function.
Thus far, my approach to Tanco has, and most likely should remain, that of a witness. I will continue publishing these developments periodically within Vague New World. The future of Tanco is uncertain due to tangible redevelopment plans, making capturing these spontaneous moments of creative flair essential.
Tanco always brings my mind back to abstraction and childlike wonder. It calms yet excites me, preparing me as an artist to notice poignant moments throughout the day. It continuously rewards dedication to closer inspection, driving my desire to share this fulfilling perspective.
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