-
I finally made it to the Guggenheim on March 10, 2010: the final day of Tino Seghal’s takeover of the famous rotunda. I conceded to go alone, since my numerous attempts to schedule a social outing there had failed. My solo adventure became a profound one.
There are two parts to the exhibit. The more evident piece features a couple embraced in a slow-motion make-out session in the middle of the lobby floor. It immediately reminded me of his piece in the After Nature show at the New Museum (that institution’s best exhibition to date). In that previous work, a single female writhed around on the floor at the end of a stairwell, also in slow-motion, and with an oddly seductive quality that mesmerized me, perhaps because the woman I witnessed (and the subsequent woman I watched a second time) stared into my eyes... I will never know if that was instructed by the artist, or is it was a unique flirtatious encounter. Sehgal's work is frustrating like that.
This embrace between a young man and woman, called Kiss, was in fact choreographed by Sehgal, and mimicked quite closely four famous kisses from art history (Courbet, Rodin, Brancusi, Koons). This was told to me by acclaimed art critic Jerry Saltz, who I saw at the top of the rotunda, having taken the elevator up as I always do. By doing so, I inadvertently missed the second – and more significant – aspect of the show: an audience-activated piece called This Progress. Instead, I had created my own experience, which was that of punctuated loneliness.
Seeing two lovers permanently intertwined, as if they existed outside of time, is lovely. It hits me in the gut, being as I am a romantic, and feeling very vulnerable and susceptible to such gestures at the moment. I leaned over the edge of the museum’s short walls from perhaps ten or twenty different heights and angles, staring at the couple, and thinking passing thoughts, sometimes thinking nothing. I also observed the crowded rotunda, full of conversations, of people milling about. (Are this many people free on a Wednesday afternoon?) The bustling liveliness made me feel more aware of my solitude, and put me deeper in touch with dangerous ideas of despair.
As I paid closer attention to the throngs of amblers, something seemed amiss; most of these chats seemed fabricated. Not everyone talking seemed like natural friends. They seemed guided. Indeed, as I later discovered, these conversations were the bulk of Sehgal’s solo show. Sehgal’s army of regular folk - interpreters - was engaging the museum-goers in a predetermined conversation. This reminded me of the first piece of Tino Seghal’s I ever saw: Welcome to This Situation at Marian Goodman Gallery uptown, in which, upon entering a back room, one is met with a small group of twenty- or thirty-somethings who proceed to engage in a grad-school-type conversation about theory and history. Ultimately, if you stay long enough, they ask you what you think, thus creating an objectless (but not un-commodifiable) work of art.
After seeing Jerry Saltz on various levels of the museum, I decided to ask him what he thought of all of this. He loved it, primarily because it activated the space in a way that visual art cannot really accomplish. Like sculpture, Sehgal’s situations make one aware of the present moment, in space and time, and engage one as part of the artistic experience, instead of simply consuming it. This is roughly the idea behind the recent Relational Aesthetics movement, which was also given an unconventional exhibition at the Guggenheim about a year ago, called theanyspacewhatever. (It was far less impressive than Sehgal’s show. I left feeling very little.) Saltz insisted I experience the entirety of Sehgal’s vision. He must have doubted my will because he gave me $20 to make sure I devoted my time to returning to the bottom of the rotunda and starting up the ramp from the base. It is here, you see, that a child greets you and starts you on your journey to the top.
“Hi, my name is Ryan. This is a piece by Tino Sehgal. Will you come with me?” This is the greeting from one of many elementary-schoolers lined up at the beginning of the ramp. YES, I say, and the child takes me for a walk. He says, “Can I ask you a question? What is progress?” Moving forward, I say. He insists that I add to that toward something better, at which point he hands me off to a girl (age17-27), and tells her what I’ve said. She asks me what I'm progressing toward. I tell her that I want to capitalize my film and video art, to make a living doing what I love. She turns the conversation into one about film; we talk for about seven minutes about dissecting movies, Stanley Kubrick, all the filmmaker friends she knows, and my general goals in this field. Then another girl (age 25-35) interrupts us with a comment about something else. Her and I proceed up two more flights, talking about art, work and life. She then disappears and an elderly man greets me. He tells me a pretty long story about his daughter’s boyfriend, who is making a film financed by German and French money (called The Edge, to be released soon…). He goes on about how difficult the process has been for this man, but how he has persevered, and how his ultimate goal – to make a film – is nearly accomplished. He then tells me It’s been nice talking with you, this piece is called This Progress, and disappears.
I am left then in this interesting mental space; I feel inspired, encouraged, even a little loved and appreciated. It’s a lie. Sort of. I decide to do it again. This time, the conversation is less career- and goal-oriented, more love- and romance-oriented. I talk about break-ups in my life, about connections I’ve made with people, about the idea that perhaps sometimes you have to move backward to go forward. I try to reveal this fabrication with some of the participants: Do you use this line on everyone? Did somebody else tell you we talked about this or that? They didn’t waver. Why did the first old man tell me this story about filmmaking? “Clearly you’re a filmmaker! What else could you be?!” he says to me, after looking me up and down. Hmm.
I want to analyze the present moment, to ask the guides how they got into this position, what their days are like in this space, how odd it is to be having this seemingly organic conversation in such a rigorous, intentional way. Can I ask a girl for her phone number? Can I switch topics completely, or must they stay focused on this idea of progress? Is this progress, really??
Tino Sehgal seems to be a Richard Linklater fan. The experience of This Progress is much like the rambling, philosophical discussions had in Slackers, Waking Life and Before Sunrise/Sunset. Being personally engaged in these conversations does indeed bring it more to life, but doesn’t necessarily make it better. For instance, who is to say that this girl and I are to have a more interesting conversation than one penned by a writer for two actors to enliven? But clearly the substance of what is said matters less than the act of participating in a dialogue beyond the surface of small talk. As Jerry Saltz articulated, the space is activated in a way that visual arts simply cannot accomplish. Participation is important. In art? Maybe. In life? Definitely.
