Soap Sud

Having lived in Minnesota for most of my life, I thought I knew what it felt like to have completely cold-numbed feet. I didn't. I found out yesterday during my two-hour orientation at the Soap Factory gallery in Northeast Minneapolis. The gallery has no heat, and it was colder inside than the sun-warmed 45-degree conditions outside. My Converse trainers were not designed, nor well-chosen, for the frigidity I encountered.

Dressed, as we'd been advised, in fairly warm clothing and coats, we learned about the Soap Factory's history, went over the duties and opportunities for volunteers and took an extensive tour of the space. Near the end of the tour, I finally stopped feeling the tingling, biting pain in my toes. I stopped feeling anything. When I re-emerged into the sunshine at the end of the session, I decided to take a walk to help reawaken my comatose nerves. Walking on numb feet proved to be a very odd sensation. I was moving forward, but had no sensory record of how I had done so.

But frozen feet were, I think, a very small price to pay. The reason why the gallery has no heat is also the reason that it's such an amazing space. The building once housed the National Purity Soap Factory (hence the name), which always was or came to be owned by Pillsbury. In the late 90s, before real estate near the Mississippi became trendy and expensive, some people from the company were discussing their plans to demolish the building. Apparently this conversation took place in a bar and was overheard by someone who convinced them to donate it to an artists' collective instead.

No Name Exhibitions eventually acquired the old factory for one dollar. But since it had been scheduled for the wrecking ball, many essential elements had already been removed (like the heating system). The $4 million cost of installing a new one is obviously prohibitive for a non-profit organization. But these small imperfections somehow make the space ideal for housing art--especially the sort of emerging, risk-taking art that the Soap Factory seeks.

We were shown several of the building's quirks during our tour. The locomotive boiler still lies dormant in the basement, an absolutely massive, hulking, awe-inspiring and antiquated piece of machinery. The basement itself is one of the eeriest places I have ever seen. It's very well-suited to the Halloween Haunted Basement that is held there each year. I was spooked whilst travelling the maze of dark spaces without costumed characters and other scary effects. I can't imagine what my reaction will be when it's done up properly. Probably sheer, silent terror.

The organic, constantly improving nature of the gallery means that I will have a very interesting volunteer experience there. Unlike the Walker, where I man a kiosk and occasionally direct a visitor to a café or gallery, I'll have the opportunity to be involved with a little bit of everything at the Soap Factory. According to the orientation slides, I'll be able to work one-on-one with artists, help with installations, contribute to rebuilding the floor that was torn out along with the lard-boiling vats, bar tend at openings--and, of course, gallery sit. I feel like I'll have a chance to make a true impact and learn a lot in the process. That is very exciting.

The Soap Factory is already doing interesting things, and I think it has great potential to achieve a lot more. The organisation is fueled by enthusiastic people with great ideas for fundraising and gallery improvements. Hopefully I can contribute a few of my own thoughts in addition to helping to carry out visions already in place. Despite having frozen feet, the orientation left the rest of me warm with eager anticipation. And I now know why the Soap Factory presents the Art Shanty Projects on Lake Minnetonka every winter. No-one expects those to be heated.