What a strange thing it is to witness something totally ordinary from your youth return to the zeitgeist as a nostalgic artwork.
A deeply detailed video store simulation, Callum Preston’s Video Land – which has opened in Melbourne’s CBD – is an art installation that feels both uncanny and surprisingly realistic. So much so that, shortly after I arrive, a woman asks me whether she can rent the videos.
Behind the fabulously retro counter is Preston himself: a Melbourne artist and designer who created the work for the Immigration Museum’s Joy exhibition, and who has fielded similar requests since it opened. One customer, he says, asked if they stocked video head cleaner. “I thought he was joking. When I told him I didn’t, he seemed pretty miffed.”
The aisles are lined with hundreds of videos, all of which come from the artist’s own collection. (There are approximately 1000 more in his warehouse that didn’t make the cut.) It’s a veritable sea of covers from yesteryear– a big-bellied Arnold Schwarzenegger for Junior, Richard Pryor drowning in money for Brewster’s Millions, John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John looking spunky for Grease.
Preston fixes me up with a membership card, which is “too big to fit in your wallet, awkwardly sized, and valid for nothing”. As we talk, a steady stream of people peruse the aisles, which are separated into the expected sections – comedy, action, romance. When I ask if he deviated from standard genres, Preston shoots back: “You mean the adult film section?” I didn’t, but – although Video Land has been open for less than a week – he’s already heard it all before.
Preston’s is one of seven installations at Joy, created by Victorian-based artists – including Beci Orpin, Jazz Money and Spencer Harrison – who were tasked with telling “personal stories that prompt reflection on what sparks joy”. As somebody who has spent lots of time in video stores – even working for one for a few years – I find Preston’s space unexpectedly, even profoundly comforting.
If it evokes joy, it’s of a soft, reflective kind. The place feels like an irresistibly garish oasis dislodged from the temporal flow of the universe, evoking a simpler and quieter time when the term “social media” made no sense and “trump” was a word primarily associated with playing cards.
Back then, time moved slower; nobody seemed to care about losing an hour just walking up and down the aisles. To foster the same energy, Preston approached the installation from the perspective of a store owner desperate to impress.
“In this universe, the video shop is trying hard to be the best store it can be, so it went all out,” he says, referencing the enthusiasm of the shop’s aesthetic. “But these kinds of stores, even the chain ones, had individual owners, and I wanted people to see that it was largely made by hand. The store is trying hard but it’s not perfect.”
There are “scuff marks, exposed elements and imperfections in the painting” as well as more subtle touches, including intentionally shoddy lighting “featuring fake dead bugs and busted bulbs”. Preston thanks the AV team for being “very forgiving of me wanting to have bad lighting, not perfect museum lighting”.
The carpet is wonderfully full-on, adding yellow splashes to the gaudy colour scheme, remaining true to the era while serving a particular purpose: “I really wanted to have the carpet be busy enough to keep your attention down,” Preston says, “because there’s no ceiling here – we couldn’t have one because of the fire system and everything”.
Other impressive details include a television perched above the counter that plays commercials for the store, and two ads about video piracy – all made by Preston and shot on an old camcorder. There’s also a rewind station and an old cash register, which Preston bought off Gumtree.
“This selection is the best of the best of what I had,” he says, describing its strongest categories as “golden oldies and strange titles”. Curios include fitness video The Steel Stomach Program (which comes with a “staff picks” recommendation), the Spice Girls’ unauthorised biography Girl Power, and the documentary 1988: The Year on Video. Preston singles out Australian gangster classic Blue Murder as a prized possession: “It’s so strong, so awesome.”
Like every rental store’s collection, of course, the library is incomplete. Preston has a prefab response for anybody who comments on this: “When people say hey, you don’t have a copy of such and such, I tell them it’s out. Someone’s rented it. That’s my excuse for anything that’s missing.”
Video Land by Callum Preston is open until August 2025 at the Immigration Museum, as part of its exhibition Joy
