At the last Whitney Biennial, my friend and I were approached by a security guard in a curtained gallery where photos and a film by Babette Mangolte were on view. The encounter—which involved the heavily accented guard telling us about his family and requesting that a man with a professional-looking camera take our picture together—had us convinced that we had been involved in some kind of relational art; so much so that when we found out from someone with inside knowledge of the biennial that this was not the case, we were astonished. "Relational aesthetics," like Happenings in the late 1950s and '60s, aren't content to let viewers peruse art at their leisure, but rather draw them into interactive situations. I skipped Tino Sehgal’s already-legendary exhibition at the Guggenheim last year for precisely this reason. I don’t like to perform, and I didn’t want to engage in conversations with strangers in an emptied museum. I considered going on several occasions, but the idea filled me with dread. To me, this is like the adult version of being picked as a "volunteer" at a magic show. Despite my aversion to this kind of art (Just leave me alone with my thoughts!), this morning, as I was picking up my grande nonfat chai latte, it seemed to offer one possible answer to the question (and don't ask me where this came from): If Starbucks were art, what kind of art would it be?
It is a plain, stucco and glass structure whose only distinguishing characteristic is a large, green, lettered sign reading “Starbucks Coffee.” Upon entering the environment, the viewer first encounters a soundtrack of bossa nova and the hissing sound of milk being steamed vigorously. Olfactory sensations soon follow and the viewer realizes that she is in a convincing simulation of a coffee shop. The décor contributes to the verisimilitude of the installation: round café tables with wooden chairs; taupe walls with dark wood wainscoting; artwork about coffee; and plush armchairs clustered in a corner.
Most of the approximately twelve to fifteen tables are occupied by lone patrons on laptop computers. A line has formed at the long counter on the far side of the room. The counter is festooned with seemingly random found objects: granola bars, CDs, breath mints, and the like. With this nod to the impulse purchase, the quaint coffee shop betrays its affinities with such emporia of mass consumption as the supermarket and the gas station. The illusion slowly begins to unravel.
The viewer notices a television monitor with an image of one of the CDs she has seen on the counter. It is preceded by the words, “You are listening to …”. Perhaps this is not a coffee shop after all, but one of those old timey record stores. Could this explain why the patrons are all wearing headphones? If at first she thought the headphones were a commentary on the alienation wrought by personal computers and social media, now she begins to wonder whether this is not, in fact, one of those relational art situations. Is the monitor a prompt? Is she meant to ask one of the customers wearing headphones what he is listening to?
Emboldened by years of museum and gallery visits, she decides to take the risk. She approaches a young man at a corner table who is in the process of tagging himself in a photo.
“Excuse me,” she says. “What are you listening to?”
“I’m so glad someone finally asked,” he responds, removing his headphones. He invites her to sit down and a conversation ensues.
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