The Art of the Intercourse
Work on The Intercourse was delayed last fall, with the arrival of Hurricane Sandy and the accompanying flood that most definitely did not remain contained behind glass. Yellin, who has lived in Red Hook for about eight years, was at his studio across the road as the waters started to rise. He tells me, “The water was up to our necks. It was so beautiful and we were taking pictures and then the water started to come inside. We tried to stop it thinking we might only get six inches of water, so we were picking things up and putting them on tables but then the water kept coming in and coming in. We’re still sorting it all out, rebuilding it all. It’s been trying, to say the least, but it’s also been great because I don’t think artists can ever edit themselves enough—good to look to Mother Nature to do it for us.”
And so there have been delays and salvage efforts, but The Intercourse is now on track to continue what began last year, with performances, classes, and events. Recovery—rebuilding—is a funny thing. You don’t always get the chance to decide what to save. Yellin tells me that, in the days after Sandy, “People’s lives were all pulled outwards. The inside of everyone’s existence was now out on the street.” To visit Red Hook now is to see things with a certain clarity—things are gone. Everything damaged has either been saved or discarded. Everything worth saving has been put back inside. It is, therefore, perhaps more important than ever to go inside and see what can be possible, after such devastation, to see what was saved, to see what kind of people did the saving. The Intercourse shows you what is possible. The constructed apocalypse stays behind glass, and reality morphs into whatever vision the artist can imagine. And that reality feels unlimited.•
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