Infiltrating an avant-garde requires, if not courage, then a great deal of courtesy. Our party (the opposition, though open-minded) is greeted at the front door of one such stronghold—The Kitchen on West 19th Street—with a scene reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz: a voice box nervously asks the purpose of our visit and, not less than a few minutes later, the door is buzzed open. It turns out that we have arrived a bit too early and so are instructed to take the elevator to the upstairs lobby where we will wait until the show begins. Upstairs, a table has been laid out with brochures for upcoming events at this and other “postmodern” outposts. A large painting of the Brandenburg Gate hangs on the left wall; to the right, a photograph of Nietzsche with a caption: “I find it difficult to imagine being an artist and not being insane.”

The guests are directed back down to the main floor and into a mammoth black chamber. It is of proportions that would surely meet the standards of a loft-holding society. But the furnishings, which might have brought a comforting familiarity in a more private setting, cast uneasiness about the guests: six television monitors stand symmetrically in the vast space, three on one side, three on the other, glowing blue and making us feel we’re somehow being watched. Clutching our ticket stubs, we’re assured that we are, in fact, the audience and not the show.

The monitors are