Fall 2011 | Issue 21

24 | The Berlin Journal | Number Twenty-One | Fall 2011
Mirror suggested that the building “should
be put in a museum to show how mad the
Twentieth Century is.”
Fifty years later the building had
become the most iconic museum space in
the world. To do justice to the architect’s
vision, and the revolutionary impulse
behind it, the museum’s board began having
strange dreams. They wanted a show, a
remarkable, epochal show, but one that did
not obscure the architecture – one that, on
the contrary, highlighted it. And yet the
more mesmerizing the show, the more
likely its images were to detract attention
from the building. And so one day, during
a meeting, a member of the board stood up
and said, “Tino Seghal.”
Seghal” is not a secret
society of lovers. At least not yet.
“Tino
Tino is an artist and his materials
– his marble and canvas, his paint and brass
and bronze, his tempera and teflon – are
people. In motion. What the Guggenheim’s
board was proposing was to invite him to
come do – something. A “staged situation.”
After a good bit of closed-door discussion,
they commissioned him to create a work
that would highlight the building. He said
yes and no. He said yes he would do it, but
that no he would not give them any material,
nothing that would remain after it was
over. He would create a piece that would
TINO IS AN ARTIST AND HIS
MATERIALS – HIS MARBLE AND
CANVAS, HIS PAINT AND BRASS
AND BRONZE, HIS TEMPERA AND
TEFLON – ARE PEOPLE. IN MOTION.
leave the building’s gently curving walls
blank, that would fill the museum with the
curious and the caring, but there would
be nothing left behind, no recording, no
photographs, no catalogue, no advertising,
no posters, no postcards, no premiere,
no nothing. It would start and it would
stop and that would be the end of it. The
Guggenheim acquiesced. They drew up a
contract which Tino would not sign, not
because its conditions were unacceptable,
but because even the material trace of a
signature was more than he was willing to
leave. The lawyers threw up their arms. A
notary was summoned and the matter was
concluded orally. The contract notarized,
now all he needed was an idea – and three
hundred hand-picked elements – that is,
people.
Some readers may have experienced
the piece, and so are invited to
skip the following section. For those
who did not, here is the idea. You are in
Central Park. You are walking north from
the Protestant barn, walking south from
your analyst’s office, walking east from
Central Park, walking west from Petco. You
see the Guggenheim, everyone sees the
Guggenheim. Though you see no poster,
no sign, have no sense of what is going on
there, you come closer. You get in line. You
wait, you ask questions, you get answers –
many of which turn out to be wrong. You
get to the front of the line. They say “One
for this progress.” You say, “What?” They
repeat themselves. You feel embarrassed.
You think that you see some people kissing,
slowly, languorously, on the floor in the
central atrium. You say, “Yes.” You pay, you
enter. You ask what you are supposed to do.
You are told, “Just keep going up.”
PROLOGUE: There is a indeed a couple
kissing and hugging and holding and turning
on the floor. At a radically reduced
pace, every movement at the same slowed
rhythm. It is beautiful. It is almost unbearably
intimate. Their eyes are closed. Like a
clearing in an enchanted forest there is an
empty space around them. You watch for
as long as you dare. You are lucky enough
to witness an ending, and a beginning. The
woman rises, slowly; turns, slowly; trails
an arm behind her, slowly. He grasps it,
holds it, and yet the force of her movement
is too great, he is too far behind,
and she, slowly, inevitably, moves away,
the contact ending with the tips of their
fingers. She walks slowly. He rises and
follows. When they reach the ring of spectators,
they disappear into it. And then a
new couple arrives to take their place. The
dynamic is different, sharper, somehow
painful. You watch for as long as you can
bear. Then you ask if this is it. You are told
that it is not.
ACT ONE: You walk up the first short
stretch of ramp. From behind a low wall
topped by a row of plants appears a child,
from nowhere. From the greenery. Like
in a fairy tale. The child says, “This is a
piece by Tino Seghal.” She courteously
asks if she can ask you a question. You
say yes she can (who says no to a polite
child emerging from the shrubbery of an
iconic building?). She gestures for you to
follow her into a room just off the ramp.
She turns to face you. Her eyes are wide,
earnest, those of a serious child. She asks,
“What is progress?” She asks in a voice,
and at an age, that the question feels real,
genuine, answerable. So you tell her. You
tell her what you think progress is. You
avoid words like ideology and technocratic.
You use ones like better, safer, kinder.
ACT TWO: As you give your answer, a
teenager, his whole unknowable hipster
life before him, enters from the other side
of the room. As soon as you finish, the
child turns to the teenager and summarizes
what she heard, interprets what you
said. Her account will sound to you more
and less right. You will want to correct or
modify certain elements. But you won’t.
The teenager motions for you to follow
him out onto the ramp. He has the natural
and not impolite arrogance of youth.
You follow him into the stream of people
moving upwards at various speeds. The
walls are completely blank. The teenager
says something about your vision of progress.
You modify your answer. You use
words like ideology and technocratic. You
develop a rapport.
ACT THREE: As you make your meandering
way up the ramp, you are being
observed. From above. You have already
been identified, already been assigned.
Someone is watching you carefully, albeit
discretely. A half-revolution up the ramp
she emerges from a concealed doorway,
and begins to follow you. She is neither
young nor old. She eavesdrops. At the next
revolution of the ramp, she disappears
without you having seen her, taking a
shortcut upwards to lie in wait.
ACT FOUR: You are making progress
with the teenager, reaching an understanding,
enjoying yourself, being clear
and kind and even sort of wise. And then,
out of nowhere, from an opening in the
wall you did not see comes a question,
abrupt, intriguing, unsettling. It reminds
you of something, but you are not sure
of what. It seems to have obliquely to
do with what you said a while ago, but
you are not sure. There is a lot going on.
Uncertain about this new person, her
bright eyes fixed on yours, you turn back
to the teenager. He’s gone. Just gone. You
turn around completely. He is still gone.
This new person, who, after all, is friendly
enough, has begun walking and you follow.
She had asked you a question, the
question obliquely relating to what you