Sign exit

“In the desert,” Joe Gallo says, “you could leave something, come back in 50 years, and find it in exactly the same place.” The River Forest–based photographer is explaining what drew him to the Boneyard, a Las Vegas lot that became a repository for abandoned casino and hotel signs. When he first visited the Boneyard in 2005, Gallo discovered that the hot, dry climate preserved the site’s treasures so well that it was hard to determine whether the giant neon-rimmed, light bulb–studded signs were decades old or recent arrivals.

Gallo returned to the Boneyard in 2006 to take photographs. The 56-year-old brings together these pictures of the still-striking signs’ bright letters and bold images (a roly-poly king, a shapely leg ending in a high-heeled shoe) in “Rust in the Dust.” The solo show at Lakeview’s Chicago Photography Center was curated by his former dealer Susan Aurinko.

Gallo tells us he was “trying to find a narrative” in the jumble of signs. “Most of those things are in the spots [where] they were first dumped off the truck because they were too heavy or too fragile to move,” he explains. His challenge was figuring out “how to present those items with the same eye that [he] was seeing them.” The photographer used a panoramic camera to reproduce the Boneyard’s low, flat, horizontal vistas. The area depicted in Modern (2006/10) comes off as a post-apocalyptic Vegas Strip lined with rusty but upright signs proclaiming MODERN, LANDMARK and TAM O’SHANTER.

Gallo also wanted to convey the evolution of the Boneyard he saw over the course of his visits. Many signs that were shining proudly downtown when he began traveling to Las Vegas, such as one of Aladdin’s lamp, turned up at the picturesque junkyard before he finished shooting less than two years later. The city’s construction bubble hadn’t yet burst, so the rate at which casinos replaced their signage, which the artist initially estimated to be once a decade, accelerated rapidly.

One of Gallo’s most effective pieces, El Cortez (2006/10), is mounted on a light box. The photo’s glow hints at how spectacular these castoffs were when they lit up the Strip and its predecessor, Fremont Street’s Glitter Gulch. The artist says the light box is a wry nod to the signs’ subsequent decrepitude. Now that most of their light bulbs are gone, leaving empty sockets, and their neon has been reduced to wan transparent tubes, they can be appreciated only during the day.

The Boneyard’s luck is changing, however. Its original owner was YESCO (the Young Electric Sign Company), which had fabricated and owned most of the signs, leasing them to the casinos and salvaging their components once they were retired. In 1996, the Boneyard became part of the nonprofit Neon Museum, which is readying a nearby visitors’ center to offer expanded public access. The lot’s closed for renovations but will display about 150 historic signs when it reopens for tours September 1. The Neon Museum has also restored some signs and returned them to downtown Las Vegas as sculptures. Gallo captured our favorite when it was still in the Boneyard: a fabulous giant shoe—completely festooned by light bulbs—which once advertised the Silver Slipper Gambling Hall.

Given his affection for its artifacts, we’re surprised when Gallo admits he doesn’t like Las Vegas very much. “They want people to go there, but it’s not a very people-friendly place,” he says with a laugh. Perhaps his real passion is obsolescence: Previous projects have focused on Chicago’s ABLA Homes and the Midwest’s “industrial wastelands.” “Progress has a role that’s kind of disturbing and regretful,” Gallo suggests, “but that’s the only way things move forward.”

“Rust in the Dust” is on view at the Chicago Photography Center through July 30.

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