A friend from Philadelphia was visiting for the weekend, and she had said to meet her and another friend at the Guggenheim on Saturday. Going, I didn’t know what the current exhibition was at all; last thing I had heard, there was a big Kandinsky show up. Since I was running somewhat later than I should have been on Saturday, I received a text from my friend, which said something along the lines of “We will watch the people making out until you arrive.” I kind of laughed and didn’t think too much of it (people-watching in public places is a very legitimate urban activity), so imagine my surprise when I arrived in the Guggenheim to find that she was not referring to one of New York’s overly affectionate couples, but to the artwork.
The spiral of the Guggenheim was stripped bare, devoid of art to my eyes. In the center of the ground floor, a couple was rolling around, making out, groping each other, and occasionally striking poses from famous pieces of artwork, all in slow motion. My friends were positioned maybe twenty feet away, as were many other museum patrons, sitting on a free bench, watching the couple about as unawkwardly as it is possible to watch a couple make out in slow motion. This was a sculpture (dance piece?) by the artist Tino Sehgal, to which my reaction was, “Well. Okay,” and trying to watch without appearing too interested.
We headed up the spiral, and as I looked for whatever I was supposed to be looking for, a kid, maybe ten years old, walked up to us, said, “Hello. This is the exhibition. Can I ask you a question? (Yes.) What is progress?” I was totally disoriented and a little freaked out that someone had conscripted a child to work as a part of the exhibition, but followed him up the spiral with my friends somewhat hesitantly, talking about progress all the while. Then the kid led us up to a teenager, summarized our responses for her, and she took us up from there.
That’s the gist of the exhibition: talking and walking, a few big ideas posed to you by progressively older participants. It concluded at the very top of the rotunda, with a senior citizen, who finished by telling us the name of the exhibition and what a pleasure it was to have conversed. Simple, straightforward, direct in its methods and basic in its execution; disconcertingly one-note, but not a bad note to dwell on. I began thoroughly unconvinced, but finished energized, at the height of a spiral, looking down at a couple obliviously making out in slow-motion, feeling the same kind of subtle euphoria and optimism that I do after a good, long run.
It was effective because although it was one-note, that note wasn’t static; it grew and evolved and worked its way into my thoughts. It was staged, and it felt staged, which is part of why I was so disconcerted by both the couple and the child at first; but at a certain point, I came around to the realization that ideas spoken by actors are still ideas, that inauthentic shared experiences are still experiences shared. There was something about the medium of choice being conversation that made it invariably effective; a simulacrum of a conversation is, you guessed it, still a conversation. So that I do not know if what each actor said was utterly scripted or spontaneous, truthful or fabricated, but I do know that I had an interesting conversation with four or five different people (of increasing ages—a key point) no matter what. It wasn’t life-shattering, or even that revelatory, but it was true nonetheless. The best analogy I can think of is that it would be like taking a photo of the color red, and trying to distinguish between the photo and the original color; the distinction is in a way irrelevant: it’s still red. The truth of the perception is still there.
But with contemporary art, the question I almost always feel compelled to ask myself, explicitly or implicitly, is: is there something to mourn here? What is the loss? And with this: when all is said and done, what is left? I suppose there’s something to be said for art that is purely experiential (and this guy is all about the ephemeral, if documentation of the work is made, it becomes “inauthentic”), but something that constitutes a significant part of my art consumption is going back again and again, having the thing itself (or my experience of it) at my fingertips and eyes and ears. Perhaps part of the problem here is that this experience was good, but not great; compared to a great concert, or a great performance, I don’t think this would measure up. A lot of art that gets on my nerves confuses the intention with the result, and though I don’t think Sehgal’s committed that particular error, I don’t think it entirely works either. I often have to let things sit in the back of my head for a while before I can fully understand their impact, or before I can feel and not just know how they'll last. The problem here is that Sehgal’s piece isn’t in the back of my head; it’s still at the Guggenheim.
- the Guggenheim's page on the exhibition
- NY Times review of the exhibition
- interesting longer piece on him from NY Times magazine
*I believe the two works are called The Kiss and This Progress, though I could be wrong.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Olympics and Ceremonies
Coming from the meticulous Beijing extravaganza that opened the summer Olympics two years ago, Vancouver (thankfully) presented a different face. If the Chinese spectacle was all about the sublime heights that can be achieved by near unlimited resources, Vancouver shied away from grand cultural statements, which is not to say that culture was obscured by the incumbent light and noise; in fact, ostensibly, culture was at the very forefront of the ceremonies. But culture was not flung in your face simultaneously by thousands of identically dressed and choreographed extras; it was just kind of there, chilling out, doing it’s own thing, and if you wanted to join in, that would be great, but the future of the country was not hanging in the balance.
As someone who was both awed and a little put off by the spectacle two years ago, it was kind of nice to watch something where not every choreographed triumph carried an onslaught of portentousness. When one of the giant icicle-things didn’t rise up out of the ground at the end for the torch-lighting, it was just kind of like, “Oh well. Woohoo Olympics!” instead of “This betokens shame for the public face of our nation in the world.” There were nonetheless some really beautiful moments and innovative presentations, executed in a soft, gently artistic style that contrasted with the Chinese event without diametrically opposing it. The video projection-floor was genuinely pretty cool and used in such a way that continually surprised, and the merging of the two dimensional with the space above it was lovely and startling. Some parts were kind of over-the-top and kind of ridiculous, but it’s the Olympics, so I guess I can’t really blame the producers for deciding that this was the time to just kind of let go.
I think it was a measure of the difference in approaches that after the Chinese ceremony, I felt the need to make grand cultural proclamations, to boldly differentiate between their culture and mine, while after this one I just wanted to go hang out with friends or something. Neither reaction seems to me bad, and both seem within the Olympic spirit. I’ve always loved the Olympics: the competition, the diversity, the way in which it remains such a defiant symbol of global communication and interaction. Both a fierce dedication to your country being the best and a willingness to relax a little bit seem compatible with those things.
And though I’m hesitant to set up this ceremony as the true counterpoint to Beijing, being winter instead of summer, the flipside of the openness and intimacy (relatively speaking) of these ceremonies is that there was perhaps a bit of a void left at its center. When the slam poet spoke, it was kind of interesting to me for two reasons: first, it was largely the kind of neo-romantic rhetoric that I associate with proclamations of Americanism (not that surprising I guess, but still it was a little odd to hear all these phrases about dreams and diversity and then hear “Canada” at the end of them); and second, that rhetoric, while inspiring and kind of wonderful, really does leave a bit of an empty hole at its center, as it is less about what is now than what will be. That impulse makes sense to me; but it also leaves me a little bit curious about what’s really at the other end of the spectrum from what we saw two years ago. London 2012 maybe?
- video of the opening ceremony, part 1
As someone who was both awed and a little put off by the spectacle two years ago, it was kind of nice to watch something where not every choreographed triumph carried an onslaught of portentousness. When one of the giant icicle-things didn’t rise up out of the ground at the end for the torch-lighting, it was just kind of like, “Oh well. Woohoo Olympics!” instead of “This betokens shame for the public face of our nation in the world.” There were nonetheless some really beautiful moments and innovative presentations, executed in a soft, gently artistic style that contrasted with the Chinese event without diametrically opposing it. The video projection-floor was genuinely pretty cool and used in such a way that continually surprised, and the merging of the two dimensional with the space above it was lovely and startling. Some parts were kind of over-the-top and kind of ridiculous, but it’s the Olympics, so I guess I can’t really blame the producers for deciding that this was the time to just kind of let go.
I think it was a measure of the difference in approaches that after the Chinese ceremony, I felt the need to make grand cultural proclamations, to boldly differentiate between their culture and mine, while after this one I just wanted to go hang out with friends or something. Neither reaction seems to me bad, and both seem within the Olympic spirit. I’ve always loved the Olympics: the competition, the diversity, the way in which it remains such a defiant symbol of global communication and interaction. Both a fierce dedication to your country being the best and a willingness to relax a little bit seem compatible with those things.
And though I’m hesitant to set up this ceremony as the true counterpoint to Beijing, being winter instead of summer, the flipside of the openness and intimacy (relatively speaking) of these ceremonies is that there was perhaps a bit of a void left at its center. When the slam poet spoke, it was kind of interesting to me for two reasons: first, it was largely the kind of neo-romantic rhetoric that I associate with proclamations of Americanism (not that surprising I guess, but still it was a little odd to hear all these phrases about dreams and diversity and then hear “Canada” at the end of them); and second, that rhetoric, while inspiring and kind of wonderful, really does leave a bit of an empty hole at its center, as it is less about what is now than what will be. That impulse makes sense to me; but it also leaves me a little bit curious about what’s really at the other end of the spectrum from what we saw two years ago. London 2012 maybe?
- video of the opening ceremony, part 1
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Of the Blue Colour of the Sky (OK Go)
I’ve been waiting for months—waiting for years—waiting for you to change; but there ain’t much that’s dumber, there ain’t much that’s dumber than pinning your hopes on the change of another. And I still need you, but what good’s that gonna do? Because needing is one thing, but getting, getting’s another.
—from OK Go’s latest album, the pleasingly titled Of the Blue Colour of the Sky, the fourth track and my initial favorite, “Needing/Getting.” Like a lot of their lyrics, they’re clever, and unlike a lot of them, more than a little heartfelt. That seems to be where their latest is aimed, bringing the self-conscious, guiltlessly indulgent brashness of their particular brand of pop towards a place a little more enigmatic. It’s a worthwhile effort, one that even succeeds occasionally, but the problem is that the album equates restraint with sophistication, ambiguity with adulthood. The band distorts their lyrics nearly beyond recognition, a veneer of production—and it does sound very fine more often than not, crackling and crunching in all sorts of shades of white—usurping the feeling the words were meant to betray. The end result isn’t bad, just a little gray, and less saturated than you had hoped. It’s all surface, textured and nuanced but surface nonetheless. And that’s too bad, because what’s there is good enough to make you wish the band had decided to grow up in their own way instead of somebody else’s, forging their own paradigm instead of their idols’.
The album traffics in nostalgia, which is not a surprising move, for them or for us these days. It’s the flipside of that knowing sway, of that determined air that lends a direction to progress, the new adult who’s just a little too old to be young. It’s not a little expected, and because of that, disappointing in equal measure. When things seem as though they’re not working out, the wise choice, the right choice, is acceptance: acceptance without compromise. It’s an admission of fallibility but a wholehearted determination to invention, to moving forward even if it’s a little stupid to do so; because every once in a while a little stupidity is demanded, and never more so than when at the beginning of something. Nostalgia, while lovely and acceptable, is the easy route in a bad way when it constitutes the greater part of your reasoning.
And essentially, that feeling is: being lost. Whether citizens or rock stars, the one thing we can agree on is being stuck in that funk and wanting something to happen. The difficulty results from a plurality of options rather than their dearth, an experience that seems like growing up all over again and is confusing because it’s not. We understand that impulse to action and needing something to happen, and the call to hearken back is understandable but not excusable; there should be leaders, not shepherds, because when you’ve discovered something that feels disconcertingly like youth you’re not ready to be gently guided; you’re ready to be told what to do so that you can joyfully and ecstatically rebel. Moderation only means something in between extremes.
The first side of that equation is securely in hand. We have the brashness of youth underneath our belt, the boom years when everything was a discovery. But now we’re on the verge of finding everything a recapitulation, of letting that luxurious distortion of stored-up knowledge and sound obscure inherent originality. It’s easy to forget that things started in chaos, that seeming atrophy can be at least as much of a spur to newness as can order. You have to reject the false duality of escapism versus realism; there are escapes in this world that involve no compromise. It’s time to move forward.
Before the earth was round, there was no end to things; no one tried to measure what they knew. Everything was warm, and everyone would love, and every contradiction was true. The sun worked twice as hard, and the moon was twice as far, and the sky was still honestly blue. But when the time came, everything spiraled in, and everyone forgot what they knew.
—from Of the Blue Colour of the Sky, track nine, “Before the Earth was Round”
- WTF?
- This Too Shall Pass
- This Too Shall Pass v2
—from OK Go’s latest album, the pleasingly titled Of the Blue Colour of the Sky, the fourth track and my initial favorite, “Needing/Getting.” Like a lot of their lyrics, they’re clever, and unlike a lot of them, more than a little heartfelt. That seems to be where their latest is aimed, bringing the self-conscious, guiltlessly indulgent brashness of their particular brand of pop towards a place a little more enigmatic. It’s a worthwhile effort, one that even succeeds occasionally, but the problem is that the album equates restraint with sophistication, ambiguity with adulthood. The band distorts their lyrics nearly beyond recognition, a veneer of production—and it does sound very fine more often than not, crackling and crunching in all sorts of shades of white—usurping the feeling the words were meant to betray. The end result isn’t bad, just a little gray, and less saturated than you had hoped. It’s all surface, textured and nuanced but surface nonetheless. And that’s too bad, because what’s there is good enough to make you wish the band had decided to grow up in their own way instead of somebody else’s, forging their own paradigm instead of their idols’.
The album traffics in nostalgia, which is not a surprising move, for them or for us these days. It’s the flipside of that knowing sway, of that determined air that lends a direction to progress, the new adult who’s just a little too old to be young. It’s not a little expected, and because of that, disappointing in equal measure. When things seem as though they’re not working out, the wise choice, the right choice, is acceptance: acceptance without compromise. It’s an admission of fallibility but a wholehearted determination to invention, to moving forward even if it’s a little stupid to do so; because every once in a while a little stupidity is demanded, and never more so than when at the beginning of something. Nostalgia, while lovely and acceptable, is the easy route in a bad way when it constitutes the greater part of your reasoning.
And essentially, that feeling is: being lost. Whether citizens or rock stars, the one thing we can agree on is being stuck in that funk and wanting something to happen. The difficulty results from a plurality of options rather than their dearth, an experience that seems like growing up all over again and is confusing because it’s not. We understand that impulse to action and needing something to happen, and the call to hearken back is understandable but not excusable; there should be leaders, not shepherds, because when you’ve discovered something that feels disconcertingly like youth you’re not ready to be gently guided; you’re ready to be told what to do so that you can joyfully and ecstatically rebel. Moderation only means something in between extremes.
The first side of that equation is securely in hand. We have the brashness of youth underneath our belt, the boom years when everything was a discovery. But now we’re on the verge of finding everything a recapitulation, of letting that luxurious distortion of stored-up knowledge and sound obscure inherent originality. It’s easy to forget that things started in chaos, that seeming atrophy can be at least as much of a spur to newness as can order. You have to reject the false duality of escapism versus realism; there are escapes in this world that involve no compromise. It’s time to move forward.
Before the earth was round, there was no end to things; no one tried to measure what they knew. Everything was warm, and everyone would love, and every contradiction was true. The sun worked twice as hard, and the moon was twice as far, and the sky was still honestly blue. But when the time came, everything spiraled in, and everyone forgot what they knew.
—from Of the Blue Colour of the Sky, track nine, “Before the Earth was Round”
- WTF?
- This Too Shall Pass
- This Too Shall Pass v2
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