Am I the last person to have heard of Arlene Shechet?
OK. I know. That’s an asinine question. It’s possibly a question that only a tiresome East Coast Transplant (ECT) like me would ask. It smacks of a gauche amount of snobbish frippery. It sounds a little like being whacked over the head with the latest issue of the New Yorker. I, myself, would vomit if I heard someone ask it. But still… I have to ask … am I?
As usual, I’m a little late to the party.
On a recent trip to Storm King Art Center in Mountainville, NY (general admission: $28 on weekends) I saw all kinds of erudite New Yorker readers traipsing through acres of well-groomed nature. I know they were erudite because a) their sensible shoes signaled that they knew how much traipsing they’d be in for, and b) I looked up “erudite.” It was a glorious summer day, and those lucky enough to be there were art-y in every sense (funky front-packs, purple-ish streaks in their graying hair). They possessed the executive functioning to get themselves to this out-of-the-way location, and everything required in order to shell out 28 bucks per; they had their collective shit together. And there they were looking at Arlene Shechet’s Girl Group, an installation of six large-scale, outdoor sculptures, like it was no big whoop. Just walking around, feeling art-y and comfy. Re-applying sunscreen. Cooly taking it in.
I, on the other hand, was not cool. Although I tried not to show my uncouth ECT ways, I wanted to jump on a pogo stick and howl with adoration. I wanted to rub my snout in the grass. I wanted to do a 50-yard dash. I wanted to dance around the living room like I did when I was eight. I wanted to dig a hole and plant myself like a flower so I’d have an excuse to stay there forever.
The six pieces — all within sight of each other — were various flavors of sherbert against the blue summer sky. They each contained vast potential energy, coiled and ready to sproing like springs, or launch like birds. Each one as well tailored as a fantastical suit and as messy as my children’s hair in the morning. Each one capable of expressing boundless optimism. They were, taken together, like a double ellipses of possibility; a joyful belly laugh at the seriousness of all those Tevas carefully shuffling around them.
Arlene Shechet’s Girl Group unbound the pretentious affectation I’d spent so many years trying to perfect. She exposed me as the silly fool that I am.
So who is Arlene Shechet? And how did she get inside my brain like a childhood friend and dare me to make up weird dances with her? Turns out, the artist who all the cool kids know is a 75 year-old dynamo. She’s currently making a “late in life” impact on the art community. Of course, she’s been around — making art, teaching, raising children, and living — for decades. But even though she’s just now getting the credit she deserves, her vision is unencumbered by bitterness. The beautiful thing is, Arlene Shechet has the wisdom not to ask for permission. Her work declares that it belongs there on its own terms — as any good sculpture does. And she makes zero apologies for pulling you out of your doomscroll ways.
“I'm full throttle [right now]. That should be obvious. I feel like I always strive to make shows that are generous, meaning I'm not holding back.” - Arlene Shechet
By the time I saw the piece above, which I will call “The Orange One,” I was unhinged. The last of the six — a long way across a field of particularly sneezy goldenrod — looked like a little airplane that had kookily landed, under the radar. It had arrived like an uninvited guest, not far from a big-shouldered, brutalist brute: a towering steel titan called Pyramidian by Mark di Suvero (which has the appearance of having actual balls). Shechet’s piece was unintimidated. It stood over in the corner of the party with me, gossiping about how stupid Pyramidian looked. Like a big, dumb jock with no date to the prom. And I loved her for it.
We are taught to contain ourselves when we observe art — it’s meant to be a passive experience. We’re not supposed to touch it or handle it in any way. As we stand before it (waiting for some kind of awe to set in) we’re not supposed to interrupt the thoughts of the purple-and-gray-haired people who have reverently made their way to the art. Anyone who has attempted to take children to a museum knows that true reverence is impossible. Children respond. My four boys have caused a fair amount of mayhem in museums. Jules, when he was not quite two, got us kicked out of MoMA when he charged across a gallery at top speed and literally bounced off of a Jackson Pollock painting; it was that exciting to him. I have pulled my children out of art installations at Mass MoCA (see above). I have quietly moved pieces of broken glass back into sculptures made of broken glass at the DIA Beacon. No matter. A physical response is what an artist wants; in my ECT heart, I know I’m not couth enough to contain myself, either.
Arlene Shechet pushes us to look beyond the stearn-eyed finger wagging of the sensible shoe crowd. She’s telling us to claim what’s ours and not hold back. She’s reminding us to look at the sky and the grass. She’s inviting us to dance around the living room with her. And, for god sakes, she seems to say, stop worrying about what other people think. Especially those of us who have never quite grown up – or refuse to – and worry that they’re the last person to find out what the cool kids already know. It’s obvious, they know nothing.
Girl Group runs through November 10.
Hope your summer is ending with ripe tomatoes and friends generous enough to share them with you. xox
naturally, i liked the last line best.
Oh my, yes- the singular joy of these grounds. My sons grew up at Storm King in spring, summer & fall. Summer was compromised, with a picture of my older son and I stifling high laughter as the 3 year-old is attacked down below by gnats.
Now, with their bike rental, we are newly delighted. Storm King is a lifetime attachment. Excited to see Shechet's current life force on display. As always, Marcy, I read your thoughts with eagerness.