Get Your Metrocard Here! Or, More Ways to Spend Money at MoMA

 









I refilled my Metrocard today … at MoMA.

A Metrocard vending machine is included in the exhibition Talk to Me, MoMA’s meditation on interactive design. Despite the exhibition’s theme, many of the objects on view can’t actually be handled; my 1990s brain prevented me from successfully engaging some of those that could. (Thankfully, the Menstruation Machine, 2010, is for display only … can the phrase ‘too much information’ apply to inanimate, if not inert, objects?) Signs tell viewers that they can enhance their experience of the exhibition by logging onto MoMA’s wifi with their phones; even my 2010 phone refused to cooperate. Then, I saw the Metrocard vending machine.

Once I determined that it was fully operational (if slightly modified—see the photos above), I took the opportunity, not to purchase one of the special-issue cards it dispenses, but to refill the card I’m currently using. Like most New Yorkers, I already have about six Metrocards in my wallet, each with $1.80 on it, or some other useless sum.

The experience was actually sort of great. I was lucky enough to be in the museum before it opened—a first, and a huge advantage (see The Museumgoer is, Against All Odds, Present). In fact, aside from the guards, I was alone at Talk to Me. I had only ever bought a Metrocard surrounded by harried commuters and clueless tourists. This was the cleanest machine I’d ever seen—none of the fingerprint-and-mystery-goo of your typical Metrocard vending machine. My credit card swipe was successful on the first try—another first. Mostly, though, it was a pleasure to interact with the machine without feeling rushed, without worrying about missing the next train. It gave me an opportunity to notice just how well-designed it is; it’s colorful and whimsical, like Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie (1942-43, in MoMA’s collection).

It’s also communicative, like the electronic billboard in the 1991 movie “L.A. Story," which dispensed life lessons along with the traffic conditions. If this object existed, it would have fit perfectly into Talk to Me. “L.A. Story” is an urban fairytale, however, and while many of the objects in the show are supremely innovative, they didn’t speak to me on an emotional level, as MoMA’s curators suggested they might.

Postscript:

I was a little disappointed that Edward Kienholz’s The Friendly Grey Computer—Star Gauge Model #54 (1965) wasn’t included in the show. This kinetic sculpture, which is owned by MoMA, purports to interact with viewers by answering their questions—yellow flashing lights indicate yes, blue lights indicate no. Of course, Kienholz’s attitude toward technology was ambivalent—the “machine” sits in a rocking chair and a text tells viewers that “Computers sometimes get fatigued and have nervous breakdowns, hence the chair for it to rest in.” This may more accurately reflect most people’s feelings about technology than the organizers of Talk to Me realize.

Pulitzer Prize-Winning Art Critic Invokes Undergraduate Textbook

Holland Cotter's front-page story in this week's New York Times Sunday Styles, "Male Models at the Line of Beauty," is ostensibly about the men's fashion shows at New York Fashion Week. Ill-equipped for this assignment (he writes that he was "learning on the job"), Cotter "pulled out [his] old H. W. Janson survey book" in the hopes of ... I'm not sure, exactly. As if taking his cues from the encyclopedic range and limited depth of the Janson book, Cotter jumps from one tenuous, superficial observation to the next: male models are beautiful like Greek statues; models line up on the runway like figures in a Byzantine mosaic (hmmm); utilitarian clothes are like Constructivist garment designs.

Cotter's take on the fashions are also head-scratchingly banal: "Tommy Hilfiger went sort of nuts with nautical stripes at his show" but "the men still looked dressed-down-drab." The article is filled with disclaimers like, "don’t listen to me, an art geek who wandered into a strange new world, about what men’s fashion should do," which makes you wonder how Cotter got stuck with this assignment in the first place.

"I’m deeply skeptical of the fashion-as-art talk of recent years," Cotter writes. His glib treatment of artistic sources here suggest that he may be skeptical of the appeal of fashion journalism to art-lovers as well. Regular readers of the Sunday Styles, of which I am one, might be insulted by this clunker (and our expectations aren't terribly high to begin with). But let's not. Mr. Cotter was probably just having a bad day, and we can always amuse ourselves with the wedding announcements.

The Museumgoer is, Against All Odds, Present

Artinfo reported today on a video game created by one Pippin Barr, a “Copenhagen-based game creator and scholar.” The game, which has the look of something you might have played on your Atari, begins when your avatar enters the doors of MoMA; he pays the $25 admission fee (yes, it’s gone up), passes through a sparsely hung gallery, and arrives at the line for The Artist is Present, the much-talked about Marina Abramovic performance which took place in the museum’s atrium last year. For those who could not attend the performance, it was streamed live on MoMA’s website. For those who missed that as well, there is Barr’s version.

Regular reader(s) of this blog may recall from a previous post that I am a bit squeamish about art that threatens to put me, the viewer, on display. It therefore never crossed my mind to sit across from Abramovic and stare awkwardly into her eyes for an indeterminate amount of time in front of scores of onlookers. Braver museumgoers than I, however, happily queued up for this opportunity. This is the experience that the player of Barr’s game endures. When I played the game, there were twenty-four people ahead of me. If you leave the game to do other things, thinking that when you return it will be your turn to face Abramovic, you are mistaken. Aggressive museumgoers who come in behind you will take your place if you don’t move forward when the line does.

Barr’s version of The Artist is Present is hardly an accurate record of the performance, but it perfectly captures the frustration which often accompanies a trip to the always-crowded Museum of Modern Art. The crowds were especially thick during Abramovic’s retrospective, which received more than its fare share of press coverage for its inclusion of nude performers and for Abramovic’s incredible feat of endurance—she sat at that table in the atrium every day, all day, for the entire duration of the show (with rare exceptions).

Barr’s game draws our attention to the endurance of the other participants in The Artist is Present. More forcefully, perhaps, it illuminates the much more banal, and certainly less celebrated, acts of endurance performed by visitors to MoMA and other popular museums every day. Ordinary people show up, pay their $25 fees, and patiently—because it requires so much patience—wait their turns to see some of the greatest art ever created; and sometimes, even, some not-so-great art.

Lady Gaga Before the Mirror

Many a time the mirror imprisons them and holds them firmly. Fascinated they stand in front. They are absorbed, separated from reality and alone with their dearest vice, vanity.

—Rrose Sélavy (aka Marcel Duchamp), “Men Before the Mirror”

Though I’ve long since stopped tuning into MTV’s Video Music Awards, when someone told me that Lady Gaga opened this year’s show with the introduction of a male alter-ego named Jo, I was curious enough to call up the clip on the internet. Sure enough, there (s)he was, sporting a black pompadour and a bound chest. Jo’s eight-minute performance included a five-minute monologue about—who else?—Lady Gaga; Jo played the part of the spurned lover, smoking furiously and beating his chest.

In her recent MTV promo, Lady Gaga (née Stefani Germanotta) says: “I really believe that art is this huge lie … we sing it and we dance and we dress it every day, and me and my friends all hope that someday we tell it enough that it becomes true.” With its black-and-white palette and close-ups of musicians, one can almost be forgiven for forgetting that the spot is an advertisement for something so crude and commercial as the Video Music Awards. Lady Gaga would like to be more than just a pop star; she sees herself and has encouraged others to see her as something of a performance artist. (By invoking her “friends” in the MTV spot, she even suggests the existence of an avant-garde coterie à la the New York School.) By donning the mantle of Art (note the capital 'A'), she has gained permission to do things and to say things that other popular performers would not do or say—their careers could not survive it. Though her audiences often appear embarrassed for her—this was surely the case at Sunday’s VMA’s—she survives to sing another song because she is vested with the authority of the Artist.

This is a clever trick, and she is not alone in deploying it. In the name of Art, James Franco has deigned to educate the masses about the distinction between high and low cultures: how wonderfully postmodern it is to see a “serious” actor play an artist on “General Hospital”! Lady Gaga and James Franco are not content to be mere artists; that is, talented performers in their respective fields. Their narcissism compels them to seek—and if they don’t find, to invent—ever more and elaborate ways to display themselves. It is fitting that Lady Gaga’s most recent incarnation (after all, Lady Gaga is herself an invention) is the lover of Lady Gaga.

For all of their supposed melding of high and low, art and life, what saves these performers is precisely the persistence of these distinctions. Lady Gaga says that she longs for the dissolution of boundaries between art and life, but her career depends on that boundary remaining fixed.

East Coast, West Coast

In the course of my research here in Los Angeles, I came across a recorded interview of the California-based artist Craig Kauffman. He and the interviewer discussed cultural differences between the East and West Coasts. They agreed, having each spent time in New York, that Los Angeles has more of a "body culture;" New Yorkers put more emphasis on intellect, and, moreover, New Yorkers are suspicious of the West Coast’s failure to do so. Kauffman noted that some conceptual artists of the Eastern persuasion who taught in LA even considered health consciousness fascistic. These kinds of New York vs. Los Angeles conversations are inevitably reductive. (In 1969, Robert Smithson and Nancy Holt made a video called "East Coast, West Coast," which played off precisely these stereotypes.) It’s also likely that New Yorkers have themselves become more attuned to health in the twenty-five years that have elapsed between that interview and the present.

Nevertheless, I have been impressed by the seriousness with which UCLA students attack their workouts at the campus gym, which I have been visiting with, perhaps, insufficient regularity. They do things like jump extremely high to clear boxes in the gym’s open-air courtyard; climb on a rock wall; play volleyball in volleyball-playing gear (like the kind of stuff Gabrielle Reece used to wear); and lift very, very heavy weights. It seems to be paying off, as some of these kids look like they stepped straight out of a tabloid "Best Beach Bodies" issue (not that I’ve ever seen one of those; not even in a waiting room). When I was in college in Philadelphia, almost everyone I knew went to the gym sometimes, but it was really a chore and it seemed clear that they weren’t aiming for the kinds of results I’ve seen here. Still, I won’t extrapolate from my limited experience. Instead, I’ve compiled a list of fairly random Los Angeles anecdotes and observations; you can draw your own conclusions:

•  Angelenos are very friendly. But one nice lady I spoke to on my daily trip to the local frozen yogurt place was surprised to learn from me that when someone falls on the street in New York, people immediately come to their aid. She surmised that in LA people would be too concerned about lawsuits.

•  People ride their bikes on the sidewalks.

•  There’s a movie theater that has couches instead of chairs. And a real live person introduces the film.

•  The buses function fairly well and are populated by mostly normal people. Even so, people here are embarrassed to catch the bus, a bus driver informed me.

 •  Almost every Coffee Bean has outdoor seating.

•  This weekend, I watched one person after another arrive for a party in an apartment building, pass right by the conspicuous buzzer box, try the door, and upon discovering that it was locked, throw their proverbial hands in the air.

•  The police will shut down a relatively tame party at 11:30pm on a Friday night if they get a noise complaint; and if they can figure out how to get into the building.

What if Starbucks Were Art?

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.

Dispatch from LA: Getty and LACMA and Brenda, Oh My!

For the past few days, I’ve been commuting to the Getty Center—by bus, of course, since I’m a real New Yorker (yeah, I know that Houston isn’t pronounced like the city in Texas; and I never tell a cab driver where I’m going until I’m inside the cab*—of course, he’ll still kick me out if I say I’m going to Brooklyn). The route passes the west gate of Bel Air, which looks exactly as you would expect if you’ve ever watched any of the gazillion TV shows or movies about wealthy people (or lucky hookers) in Los Angeles. Being … the age that I am … the first show that comes to my mind is one that was set only a few miles away—Beverly Hills, 90210—the original, of course.

I distinctly recall sneaking a few of those early, Brenda-era episodes in, since no responsible parent would allow their eleven or twelve year-old to watch that smut. The episode I remember best is when Kelly’s mother MC’s the mother-daughter fashion show high on cocaine. When I discovered about a year ago that SOAPnet (a television channel you’ve probably never heard of) re-runs episodes of 90210 in the afternoons, it seemed appropriate that the first episode I should catch was that very one.

I’ve watched a few episodes since then and what surprises me isn’t how tame the show is by today’s standards—though this is true—nor how dated the clothing and hairstyles are—and you know they are!—but how earnest it is. Almost every episode has a lesson, like a children’s book that teaches kids to share. Remember when Donna bombed the SAT’s? That was when we discovered that she had a learning disability (lesson: people with learning disabilities are not stupid). Or when we found out that Andrea lied about her residence so that she could attend West Beverly High (lesson: poor people don’t have equal access to good schools)? How about Brenda’s breast cancer scare (monthly breast exams, ladies)? Or when Scott accidentally killed himself with his father’s gun (guns aren't toys; and for god's sake, parents, put them where your kids won't find them)? And of course, Kelly’s mom, high on cocaine, ruining the mother-daughter fashion show, and Kelly’s life (don’t do drugs, especially if you’re old).

I’ve never seen the new 90210, and I surprised myself by not becoming addicted to Gossip Girl, but I’ll surmise that morality plays don’t feature prominently in their story arcs. In fact, twenty years on, such things seem positively quaint. We don’t like our shows pedantic. Viewers are much savvier today than they were twenty, and certainly thirty or forty years ago. I find it difficult to sit through any television show that still uses a laugh track, and the pseudo-documentary style of The Office, Parks and Recreation, and Modern Family is quickly becoming formulaic. Then it will be on to the next thing. Beverly Hills, 90210 is like a time capsule—and the most surprising discovery inside is that kids once allowed their mindless entertainment to teach them things (or to try to).

* If you got this reference, you're a real New Yorker.