The Day I Disrobed at the Museum

Naked on the Bowery, copyright Art Observed

I realize this title might sound a bit provocative, like the outcome of a game of Truth or Dare gone terribly awry.

But this month I participated in museum-sanctioned nakedness and submerged myself in a one-of-a-kind exhibit dubbed the Giant Psycho Tank — a sensory deprivation pool of heavily salinated, skin temperature water.

If you’ve spent any time in NYC in the past few weeks, it’s hard to miss the ads announcing this exhibit by artist Carsten Höller at the New Museum.  Since its opening, visitors have been flocking to the Bowery to try out some of the experiential installations for themselves.

See video at the bottom of the post to learn how the New Museum installed the slide!

I didn’t intend to stand in line for the Psycho pool, but I had just gotten seriously banged up on another one of Höller’s pieces, a 100-foot metal tube slide which drops visitors down an Alice in Wonderland-like shoot at high speed into a room full of life-size neon crocodiles and hippos and rapidly flashing lights (not recommended for those who have visually induced seizures or a whole host of other conditions, the Museum warns).

True, I had been told to keep my arms together until I landed on the mat two floors below, but a primal survival instinct caused me to put out my hands at the bottom to stop myself from crashing to the floor. Call me crazy.  My right hand instantly swelled, which I was told by one of the security guards “has been happening a lot around here,” adding, “You’re just lucky it wasn’t your head.”

I nursed my throbbing hand as I stood in line for the tank, hoping the water would provide some form of relief.  I had to suspend some judgement about the young unkempt looking man waiting patiently ahead of me and thanked my lucky stars that the NY Department of Health had ordered that the exhibit must now only accommodate one museum visitor at a time instead of the six-at-a-time naked strangers it was intended for.

Once inside, I cautiously sat down on bent knees, thinking maybe I wouldn’t submerge myself.  Eventually curiosity got the better of me, and I slid down into the water and floated effortlessly with my arms outstretched. I remembered a question someone once asked me as a child about what heaven might be like.  I imagined a clean, light room with warm water, not unlike this.  I felt calm and free, and I really didn’t want to get out.

Giant Psycho Tank, 1999 Photograph: Attilio Maranzano

For every person who loves the tank, there’s someone who is utterly disappointed. When he came out of the tank, the man in front of me complained that the water was too cold and the tub was too shallow.  I should have guessed that my kids, who had come along begrudgingly that morning, thought the slide took museum-going to a worthy and exciting new level.  Vive la différence!

As we walked home, caked up salt flaking off my body, I thought about some of the themes of the show:  safety, doubt, childhood vs. adulthood, and what constitutes art itself.  Maybe you don’t need to throw yourself into this kind of psychedelic experience to understand that our impressions of art are formed not only on the physical level (how naive of me to think of art as something primarily experienced through the eyes!) but also on the foundation of all the deep-seated experiences, impressions and beliefs from our past.   And by bringing an amusement park-like quality to a museum, Höller calls into question our “regular” experiences in the outside world:  couldn’t they be considered art too?

This week, I’ll try going though everyday life experiencing movement, interaction, people and things as works of art.  Just a little experiment to take things Beyond Siri’s Grasp!  Hope you have a wonderful week.

Experience is showing at the New Museum until January 15.  More information here.

Take a look at how the Museum literally cut into the structure of the building to install the slide:

Lessons from Mile Marker 11

Bright and early this morning, my 8-year-old son and I walked over the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn for our annual NYC Marathon ritual.

This fall rite involves hot chocolate for him and a cappuccino for me as we stake our positions in a patch of sunlight near the 11th mile marker.

If we time it right, we get to watch all of the top runners go by.  But we’re really there for the excitement of the elite wheelchair race.

In the early hours the sidewalks are pretty deserted, so we’re among the few at that stretch to cheer them on.  We try to learn a bit about them in advance:  Krige Schabort was a soldier in the South African army when a bomb explosion took his legs.  Two years later, he began to race wheelchairs.  Tatyana McFadden was born with spina bifida and left at a Russian orphanage as a baby.  She was adopted by an American family who introduced her to sports.

You don’t have to have a child with you to be reminded of the lessons on Marathon Day.  The importance of showing up for other people – especially when it’s early and cold and no one else is there.  How all of the racers – not only those in wheelchairs – have some personal challenge to overcome, making them heroes of their own journeys.

When our hands were numb from clapping and our throats were scratchy from all our boisterous encouragement, we walked back over the bridge towards home.

Watching the finish results on-line, we were left with few more ideas to ponder together, not the least of which can be the ick factor of marketing (bullet #3) …

• The favored wheelchair racer, Kurt Fearnley of Australia, snapped the steering mechanism on his chair and came in second to Masazumi Soejima of Japan.  “In the end that’s racing. Some days it goes your way and other days it goes the other way.”

• Geoffrey Mutai, the male winner and course record setter:  “I try at the last minute to push it a little more. We all worked together – and then it was time to push it. For me, I was trying to run my own race.”

• Meb Keflezighi, the sixth-place overall winner:  “I felt strong going into it, training at high altitudes in my SKECHERS GOrun racing shoes, which definitely made a positive impact on my running. I’ve been a heel strike runner my entire life, but SKECHERS’ mid-foot strike technology has helped me adjust my stride to be more efficient.”

Signing off now to put on our own somewhat ratty sneakers & to enjoy this beautiful NY afternoon!

Barbara

Ps – I should mention that my son took all of these pictures — except the one of himself!

About Siri & Me

I started this blog right around the time Apple launched Siri, a voice-activated personal assistant who has a response to most questions or comments you speak into your new iPhone:  “Siri – I’m hungry.  Where can I get food around here?“  Her answer:  “I have located 18 restaurants in your immediate vicinity.  They are…”   Or, my kids’ favorite:  “Siri, I love you“  to which she’ll respond, “Oh.  Stop it.” (If you haven’t seen Siri in action, see the video below.)

Of course, there are many things that Siri can’t interpret.  And this blog is about some of those uniquely human experiences that make up this one blogger’s life

My name is Barbara, and I live on the Lower East Side.  I’m a mom, outnumbered in our NYC apartment by three wonderful – if somewhat boisterous – guys.   I work with human rights activists from around the world by day and teach at a university by night.   (Sorry Siri – I also have an old clunker of a cell phone!)

Life can feel a little crazy over here at times, but writing helps me slow down and gain perspective.  I learned that last year when I wrote a blog called Last Year To Live, in which I recorded observations in living while my close childhood friend was living out her final year.

Anaïs Nin once noted, “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”  The writing process helped me to examine individual moments like interesting stones found on a mountain trail – turning them over and over again until I could appreciate their wholeness.  Unexpected joy was found in sharing the observations and in the on-line camaraderie that developed.  No matter the framework and circumstances of our lives, I learned just how much essential commonality weaves us together.

Now I’m back, and hoping you’ll come along for this new leg of the journey.  Leave a comment, and let me know who you are.  Thanks so much for reading!