For a museum that is constantly bitching and moaning about the inadequacies of its flagship Marcel Breuer building, the Whitney Museum has brilliantly positioned the granite tomb to resurrect itself into a Summer of Love capsule, inviting all sorts of consciousness-altering, free-associating party action and spontaneity during the warmer months.
It couldn't happen soon enough. If I read about another art-world party with the same three "celebrity" attendees (Kembra Pfahler, Terence Koh and James Franco), especially the highly inappropriate Givenchy do that Klaus "Beezer the Pleaser" Biesenbach tossed for Marina Abramovic, a bash which suffocated the entire spiritual breath of her brilliant peformance, I shall goose an Antony Gormley figure to scream.
Anyway, the Whitney trifecta, an algorithm of esthetic pleasure ready to mushroom through your mind, consists of the mescalito Winslow Homer, Mr. Charles Burchfield, curated by (double wow) Robert Gober; a survey of that disc jockey of vinyl silence, Master Christian Marclay, whose exploratory doodlings through musical signifiers are to be interpreted by 50 hip musicians; and, from the hand of Mistress Chrissie Iles, a carnival of physicality called, frighteningly, "Off the Wall: 30 Performative Actions."
All three exhibitions will be revved up before the Fourth of July, and preparations for the Breuer Boil must mimic what one would do if going into the Tunnel of Love at the Asbury Park Boardwalk with Bruce Springsteen and Snooki Polizzi. Let me challenge the art-world audience, particularly the youth, those residing in states (such as Maine) which permit medical marijuana, new lovers ready to continue the new nudey trend of Abramovicia, ancient acid-heads with a skull full of flashbacks, street musicians and left- wing activists hot about our too-cool-for-school Prez and his corporate pals, to go to the Whitney and take action!
Let us turn this perfect rainbow of participatory exhibitions into the first yippie riotfest of the new art decade, wiping away the laziness of "Greater New York," the pretentiousness of "Younger than Jesus" and (as much as I loved the show) the irrelevance of the Whitney Biennial. I wanna see Lenny Lauder in flip-flops smoking a banana, Adam Weinberg setting fire to $100 bills and Donna DeSalvo twirling a Hula Hoop. This is the real festival folks (at the stupid Whitney, of all places!). To quote John Lennon, "Don't let me down!"
CHARLIE FINCH is co-author of Most Art Sucks: Five Years of Coagula (Smart Art Press).