Rosa Barba: Artist’s Studio, Park Avenue Armory
Granted a sabbatical from Steyerl’s daring, stringent historical inquiry, the stiff interior of the Veterans Room swings the stage laboriously set by Rosa Barba. Even the dusky tip of metal light fixtures morphed into a rotating disco ball. The wild, disenchanting charmers distilled out the last bit of controlled posture they retained in a high-tech, foolproof robe.
Instead of a refined orchestra—perhaps as the playbill indicated, human performers were having a special night at the pre-installed field— the piece served as a host who expects guests’ presence to complement their hospitality and admirability at the same time. People were invited to the party but got cold feet, allowed limited room to witness and absorb. With every chance to step in and mingle, audiences were only encouraged to applaud while the cast shouted out.
Unlike a Philharmonic’s concert where each performer stands up to high standards and sits prepared for rigorous examination in a fixed duration, the room decor under Barba’s spell relished their liberation from the stale, creaking fixture of glamor treading across time. The furnace, metalwork, Tiffany window all threw themselves onto the dance floor and tapped their feet; to the beat indeed, but with the most naive and carefree body movements.
Drums chased off reluctance and stripped bare the gilded enchantment. Whimsical shrieks are added; the cello is stroked by film strips to produce the most docile sound of harmony.
An ambitious treasure hunter who can map out all clicky clues and thread a magnetic net, Barba catered a party for her adorably unexpected roster of clients. Whereas Oliver Beer’s vessel orchestra was ingeniously programmed, Barba’s lineup was like those long queues in front of a community bunch spot, each with a chilled look in the infinite wait while radiantly fancying their way of steak and eggs.