Life is a Shihtzu T-Shirt

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I started dancing in Flushing, Queens—home of The Nanny and my family in the Life is a Shihtzu T-Shirt in addition I really love this early ’80s—at age three. It was pre-memory, but the photos in fat, sticky albums capture my black bowl cut, my pink leotard, and my arms overhead in ballet’s fifth position. Dance was pure fun then, but it would come to mean everything to me.Later, dance was also exercise, though I never thought of it as such. It was confidence, as I swallowed my jitters and did the running man onstage at my first recital, C+C Music Factory blasting under hot, high school auditorium lights. Dance was friendship, when my trusted partner and I wore nude bodysuits painted with mermaid scales and performed an en pointe duet to the soothing sounds of Enya in our teens. (We’d also don hot pink wigs and pleather jumpsuits for a probably inappropriately saucy Rolling Stones medley.) Dance was ambition, because I wrote my college essays about it; leadership when I captained my high school’s Rockettes-inspired kick line. It was self-discovery, set to Britney Spears’s “Toxic” on the banquettes and at packed summer-share houses of my 20s and wild joy at my wedding. Dance was art, as my dad and I wondered at Swan Lake under the starburst chandeliers at the Metropolitan Opera House. As I got older, going to dance class whenever I could was a rare chance to hold on to myself; when parents take their kids to activities and cultivate their interests, it’s often at the expense of their own.Last year, the dancing stopped—the public dancing, anyway. I still jumped around my kitchen, most memorably to BTS’s “Dynamite” with my daughter on Inauguration Day, or pranced to Dua Lipa while putting away endless amounts of laundry. Until a recent Friday night, I hadn’t gone out dancing in more than a year; but what broke the dry spell was Social! The Social Distance Dance Club at the Park Avenue Armory, a performance-art experience conceived by Talking Heads icon David Byrne, prolific Broadway choreographer Steven Hoggett, and set designer Christine Jones. Social! invites 100 people to bust moves in “their own socially distanced spotlights”—my waking dream—in the cavernous Wade Thompson Drill Hall. Adding to the allure: Byrne is a family hero; one of the dance highlights of my life was getting up from my seat, at Byrne’s insistence, during American Utopia on Broadway when he played “Burning Down the House.” Even my four-year-old son knows the lyrics—“take a look at these hands”—to “Born Under Punches.”I got ready like I used to get ready—blasting LCD Soundsystem and Lady Gaga, putting on tights, over-the-knee boots, and blue mascara. Unlike how I used to get ready, there were no pregame drinks because I was rushing out after taking my kids to swim class. Instead of a bouncer, I was greeted at the Park Avenue Armory with a shallow nasal swab—the mandatory rapid COVID test given to every attendee. I won’t pretend it wasn’t an anxiety-and-stress cocktail as I sat in a folding chair in the waiting area, an attendant telling us he was anticipating our results via headset. The assorted crowd looked unassuming: A lady in head-to-toe neon pink and a blonde topknot sat six feet in front me; in front of her, there was a doyenne who called to mind Sex and the City’s Bunny MacDougal, wearing rhinestone ballet flats. Sometimes, at children’s birthday parties, someone asks me, perplexed: “Are you wearing blue mascara?” No one had that query here.Once cleared as collectively COVID negative—reader, a cheer broke out—we filed in neat lines into the Drill Hall, and my mouth dropped beneath my mask: the high drama of the dark, 55,000-square-foot space, but for rainbow-colored, game-show spotlights! There was an eerie silence under the disco ball, bathed in an almost holy light. Would it be awkward to dance like this—sober, masked, distanced, alone together? Would my body remember how to do it? It certainly helped when Byrne, like a kind of voice of God, boomed over the speakers, first affirming the Indigenous roots of the Armory and Manhattan itself and then talking us through a classic dancer’s warm-up: head rolls, hip pops. One of the first songs from DJ Mad Love as played by Karine Plantadit was Daft Punk’s “Lose Yourself to Dance”—and I obeyed.The scene inside the ArmoryIn a purple spotlight all my own, I lost the daily fear and anger of the past year and found myself doing one of the things I loved most in the world. Some people around me were barely moving. Others jumped in place, “rolled the invisible ball” with their hands (a signature Phish show move), or did riffs on the Charleston. I danced a little bit of everything I’d ever danced: body rolls, rib-cage isolations, party-girl bounces, a splash of jazz. Everything and anything felt perfectly appropriate here. A magical moment came during the Grease anthem “You’re the One That I Want” when the badass dancer in the spotlight diagonal to mine and I locked eyes and made like Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta in the carnival shake shack, shimmying toward and away from one another in time. Dance—and I’d like to think myriad childhood screenings of Grease—was the primal, unspoken connection between this total stranger and me. It was nothing but pure fun again, and it felt more precious than it ever had. How lucky we were to be there in quasi public, somewhere other than the kitchen, working up a sweat under masks.For social lubrication and preparation purposes, Byrne sent attendees a five-minute video with a few moves to learn beforehand. In a kilt and Mary Janes, he taught us “shaky knees,” “puppet legs” (raising your knees and wrists in unison), and “stopping traffic” with both arms extended. Social! ended this way, with 100 people puppet legging together—a hopeful glimpse of art born out of isolation. “History has shown how times of crisis can disrupt the dance floor—and reshape it. During the 1918 influenza pandemic, many dance halls in the U.S. and Britain were closed and people endured similar social distancing measures as today,” Will Coldwell wrote in a recent Financial Times article titled “COVID will not squash our deep-seated need to dance.” Snippets of the piece flashed on a big screen in the Social! waiting room. “When normality returned, dance clubs flourished. The Roaring Twenties and the Jazz Age saw years of pent-up energy—as well as trauma and grief—burnt up on the dance floor.” Dancing came right back to me. It made me feel like everything will come back. “Remember the old world?” Byrne’s voice echoed in the hall. “We’re gonna make a better one.”

Life is a Shihtzu T-Shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt

This week, Dia Chelsea reopens to the Life is a Shihtzu T-Shirt in addition I really love this public after a two-year—and reportedly $20 million—renovation. Designed by Architecture Research Office (ARO), the 32,500-square-foot site combines three contiguous buildings on West 22nd Street into a space that encompasses 20,000 square feet for exhibitions, a “talk space” for public and educational programming, and Dia’s bookstore.Dia has long had a footprint in that area, opening its first Chelsea outpost in 1987; several years before commercial galleries did the same. At the time, it represented a decisive break from the white-box SoHo exhibition space, embracing instead the brick, steel, and general grit of a neighborhood primarily known for its warehouses and auto-repair shops. The new Dia Chelsea rekindles some of that old roughness, says curator Alexis Lowry. “I’m a biased judge, but I think the architects have done a really, really beautiful job of essentially taking the buildings back to their essentials—so stripping them down, but also just tweaking them in small places so that they feel clean and elegant, but like the industrial spaces that they have always been.” ARO’s work isn’t over, however: The Dia project will also include the creation of Dia SoHo at 77 Wooster Street, and the “revitalization” of two landmark installations, Walter De Maria’s The Broken Kilometer (1979) and The New York Earth Room (1977), on West Broadway and Wooster Street, respectively.The new Dia Chelsea.Inaugurating Dia Chelsea are two commissions by the artist Lucy Raven: a new iteration in her Casters series (2016) and Ready Mix (2021), a roughly 50-minute film, both up through January 2022. (The next two artists set to show in the space will also be women.) Raven’s relationship with Dia began in 2017, when she gave an experimental talk on De Maria and the Land art movement for the organization’s Artists on Artists Lecture Series. “It was so exciting to us that we immediately wanted to invite her to do something else on her own terms,” Lowry says, “which is also something that we try very hard to keep at the center of our work—[inviting] people to make the work that they want to make.” What that meant for Raven, who is based in New York, was creating two utterly distinct environments—one dark and quiet, the other bright and rather loud—that each abstracts elemental forces like movement, light, and space in utterly transfixing ways.Lucy RavenIn Dia Chelsea’s East Gallery—a former marble-cutting factory—Casters presents as two pairs of wall-mounted sculptures, all of which emit a roving beam of sometimes focused, sometimes diffused white light. (They’re programmed to follow a two-ish-hour choreography that loops throughout the day.) The piece’s forbears and influences are myriad, among them the CGI process involved in creating 3D films (which directly informed Raven’s 2015 installation Tales of Love and Fear at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute’s Experimental Media and Performing Arts Center); the artist Robert Smithson’s Enantiomorphic Chambers from the mid-1960s, Michael Snow’s experimental film La Région Centrale from 1971; and the mechanics of the anti-aircraft devices employed during World War II. (In fact, a line is projected through each of Raven’s lights, and when two briefly meet and form an ‘X,’ the shape recalls a rifle’s crosshairs.) Ultimately, the effect of Casters toggles between the calculated and the uncanny; as they move about the room, the four beams read a bit like scanners or searchlights. “One of the impulses for Casters was to remove the image,” Raven explains, “and think about a relationship to space and to land that couldn’t rely on an illustrative depiction of the land.”Lucy Raven, Casters, 2016.The question of how a landscape is seen (and used) also sits at the center of Ready Mix, which plays on a huge, free-standing screen in the adjacent West Gallery. Raven shot the film at a concrete plant in Bellevue, Idaho, about an hour from the cabin that she shares with her partner in the Sawtooth Wilderness. (She spent several months there last year. “I think we saw the UPS lady, and that was about it,” Raven says.) In one sense, Ready Mix is about state change—what happens when solids become liquids, for instance, and the forces that cause those changes. (The process occurs both physically, as mineral aggregates and cement binders are churned into ready-mix concrete, and optically, as materials accumulate so quickly onscreen that the image becomes blurred to the point of seeming almost liquid.) In another sense, Ready Mix endeavors to demythologize the American West; countering the stubborn, old trope of the vast, empty frontier with visuals of all the infrastructural stuff produced there. (To drive that point home, one’s view is completely eclipsed by a wall of concrete blocks when the film ends.)Lucy Raven, Ready Mix, 2021.Yet for all of the—well—dullness of its subject matter (“There’s nothing like starting a chat with someone who says, ‘What are you working on?’ And you say a film about concrete,” Raven joked in Artforum. “It’s an instant conversation stopper.”), Ready Mix can’t help but be kind of cinematic. Unlike many of Raven’s other moving-image works—China Town (2009), Curtains (2014), et cetera—Ready Mix is not an animation, but shot like a normal film, at a standard capture rate, and in silvery black and white. Moreover, the film’s soundtrack (so to speak) mixes ambient noise from the plant with a very subtle score by the percussionist Deantoni Parks.Lucy Raven, Ready Mix, 2021.The film wasn’t made to be beautiful, yet between the pouring and the shaking and the churning, and the bird’s-eye views of trucks navigating a terrain that may well be on the moon, Ready Mix is not without its “seductive moments,” to borrow a phrase from Lowry. Raven herself admits that as she looked back over the footage, certain frames appeared to her like Abstract Expressionist paintings: “When I was editing, I was like, ‘Okay, I’m going to jump to the Frankenthaler,’” she says, “or like, ‘Oh, wait, the Pollock needs a little work.’” To accompany the exhibition, contributors to a publication on Raven due in June have assembled some recommended texts in Dia Chelsea’s talk space. Books on American history lie alongside volumes on concrete poetry. Raven realized as she was making the film that there was concrete photography, concrete poetry, and musique concrète, but no such thing as “concrete cinema.” Yet all of those forms offer a useful framework for engaging with both of Raven’s pieces. Set aside, for a moment, their formidable technical and ideological complexities, and give yourself over to the experience—the encounter—as you might a montage of recorded sounds, or an early poem by Carl Andre. You may be surprised by what you find.  Dia Chelsea opens to the public on April 16. For visiting information, see here.