The basement of the main Salvation Army on the northern fringe of downtown Minneapolis is quiet and empty as an anchorite's cave. It's not hard to understand why. The low-ceilinged room's fluorescent glare seems more conducive to open-heart surgery than shopping. The candle holders, board games, and cordless electric frying pans arrayed sparsely along the off-white metal shelves hold little allure for anyone but the most intrepid bargain-hunter. Only a few small kids make any noise, and they never stay downstairs for long. The record section is worst of all: a pauper's grave for the city's most unwanted vinyl. Which is exactly why Christian Marclay is here, his fingers flipping eagerly... More >>>