It began with a subtle sound, the rhythmic squeak of shoes against a wooden surface. In the hushed environment of the art gallery, this sound was a beacon, drawing attention and signaling an unexpected event. Moments before, the pale blue platform stood vacant, an unassuming object in the exhibition space. Now, it was occupied, brought to life by the presence of a go-go dancer. Intrigued, I moved swiftly through the gallery, compelled to witness the unfolding performance in the small, intimate room.
Felix Gonzalez-Torres,
Upon entering, I was immediately captivated. He was dancing, embodying the essence of go-go dance within an art context. His attire – a silver lamé bikini, mirrored sunglasses, white socks, and sneakers – was both classic go-go dancer and strikingly contemporary. The mirrored sunglasses were a key detail, reflecting the space and the viewers, turning the act of observation back onto ourselves. His confident movements commanded the small platform, transforming it into his personal stage. He held his iPhone, earbuds in place, immersed in techno music, creating a world both public and intensely private. His bleached blond buzzcut and gold ear gauges added to his distinct style, a modern interpretation of go-go aesthetics. The squeaking of his shoes, sharp and insistent, filled the room, yet his dance was far from aggressive. While echoing the familiar tropes of go-go dance, he transcended cliché, revealing himself as an individual. Each gesture, each shift of weight, was uniquely his, radiating a natural, unforced sensuality. I found myself drawn to the floor, sitting to observe more closely as his body began to gleam with perspiration. Time became irrelevant as I watched, mesmerized. After what felt like an indeterminate period, he stepped off the platform and disappeared upstairs, presumably into the gallery offices, leaving me to contemplate the experience. Was my intense observation intrusive?
I was already familiar with “Untitled” (Go-Go Dancing Platform) (1991) by Felix Gonzalez-Torres through readings and online videos. However, witnessing a live go-go dance performance in this artistic setting was profoundly different. The encounter sparked a deep curiosity about the dancer himself – his name, his background, his perspective on the artwork. What was it about this particular performance that resonated so strongly?
A brief online search led me to him. After some digital sleuthing on Instagram, I discovered that this dancer wasn’t a regular performer in the piece, unlike others who were frequently tagged in social media posts. Eventually, I found his profile and reached out with an email titled: “my favorite dancer.” His name was Ben, Ben Ross Davis.
Ben Ross Davis, an artist in his own right, was in Berlin when we finally connected via video chat.
“Do you remember me?” I asked, self-consciously adjusting my phone and lighting for the video call. He noted the slightly patchy audio but complimented my image quality, “You look good.” My pulse quickened, despite knowing he was referring to the video.
He didn’t recall me specifically. “I don’t know if I remember particular faces like that,” he explained. “When I first approached it I decided to not make eye contact with people because I wanted to focus on channeling the piece and the music, almost for myself.” I was slightly disappointed, perhaps unrealistically hoping for a moment of recognition, a shared connection from that intense viewing experience. But I had underestimated his own engagement with Gonzalez-Torres’ artistic intentions, the historical context of the work, and the significance of participating in it.
Gonzalez-Torres frequently emphasized the crucial role of the public in his art. “I need the viewer … I need public interaction,” he stated in a 1993 interview with Tim Rollins. “Without the public, these works are nothing. I need the public to complete the work … to help me out, to take responsibility, to become part of my work, to join in.” I, too, have actively participated in Gonzalez-Torres’s pieces, collecting candies from his scattered piles on several occasions. I habitually consume one and preserve another, creating a personal collection, a miniature museum of sorts from his various works. (These candies now reside in an airtight jar, protected from ants). I have repeatedly experienced the subtle tension and allure of engaging with Gonzalez-Torres’s art, the sense of reverence and connection, or the illusion thereof, with the artist. Passive observation is impossible; to witness these works is to participate, to consciously choose engagement or disengagement. However, the go-go platform introduces a unique dimension, an additional layer of public interaction and responsibility. Between the institution and the viewer exists a third entity – the dancer – who is as integral to the completion of the artwork as the audience. This triad creates a complex dynamic, with each participant bringing distinct yet equally vital roles and responsibilities.
Davis concurred that observation itself is an active undertaking. Deciding duration, proximity, and whether to photograph are all deliberate choices, forming a kind of negotiation, or, as Davis put it, an interaction.
Choosing to truly see the dancer is an active decision, one I consciously made. “Initially, I didn’t want to insert too much of myself within the piece, but then as I got a bit more comfortable, I felt like it was a bit important for me to insert part of who I am into the work,” Davis explained, referencing his choice to wear mirrored glasses he had created. However, complete self-effacement was inherently impossible. How could one ignore the Snellen eye chart tattoo on his bicep, the magnet tattoo on his forearm (later identified via FaceTime), or the mole on his buttock? During our conversation, I learned that he sometimes danced not only to techno mixes but also to his own music. “I made [the song] for myself in a lot of ways, like as a catharsis in a way, and to make me move, so it worked really well actually,” he said.
Perhaps this inherent individuality was the core of my fascination. Gonzalez-Torres conceived a work that relies on a “type” – the dancers are consistently male, athletic, attractive, often with tattoos and minimal body hair (though variations exist) – yet simultaneously allows for profound individuality to emerge. Even the dance schedule was personalized, dictated by each dancer’s availability. “The piece itself was completely up to the dancer, so I could basically come and go any of those days, as I wanted,” Davis said. “You can come down for 15 seconds and leave, or you can dance for the whole time if you want.”
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In conversation with Davis, I realized the performance held significant meaning for him, potentially even more so than for the passing gallery visitors. Gonzalez-Torres’s art is designed to amplify with engagement, exemplified by the candy piles and paper stacks that are continuously replenished; abundance is inherent.
“There were definitely people that I don’t think really understood it, and I think there were some people who were offended by it, and there were people who laughed, and then there would be people who would just sit there and hold their heart,” Davis recounted. “The laughing and the fear, more or less, is just as important as the really intense intimacy, because I think that emotions are important, a gamut of emotions are important, and I think that’s cool that it affects people in different ways.”
When I inquired if he felt sexy during the performance, he paused thoughtfully. “Um, sure. But also, I’m not really a sexy dancer,” he responded. “I was just dancing the way I would normally dance, so I wasn’t like, ‘I’m going to go on this platform and be super sexual and sexy,’ I just went on there and danced how I dance.” While his self-assessment of not being a “sexy dancer” might be debatable, his core point resonated: he was afforded the space to be authentically himself. He likened the lamé briefs to armor, which I interpreted as permission for profound self-expression. He exuded both confidence and vulnerability in conversation, suggesting that this “armor” had either remained with him or was an inherent aspect of his personality.
Gonzalez-Torres’s work has profoundly influenced many artists, particularly those within the gay and queer communities. Gonzalez-Torres, a gay man who tragically lost his partner Ross Laycock to AIDS and subsequently succumbed to the same illness just five years after creating the go-go dancing platform, had compelling reasons to explore themes of loss in his art. Yet, within this exploration, there was always an undercurrent of life and hope, a dimension I sometimes overlook. My own surprise at the joy and seduction evoked by the dance stems from my usual experience of his art – his empty bed photographs, ephemeral candy piles, and stoic paper stacks often elicit more pain than pleasure. The dance, despite its inherent sense of isolation, paradoxically reminded me of positive aspects of human experience – connection, love, and the power of the unconventional.
My boyfriend Fred was asleep upstairs while Davis and I spoke. When I asked about his sexual orientation, he responded, “100%,” and when asked about a partner, he mentioned a conscious decision to prioritize his graduate studies. This led to a conversation about the significance of love and connection, and the varying degrees of ease with which these are attainable at different times.
Our call ended as my phone battery depleted, leaving me with a multitude of unanswered questions. (How did the gallery discover him? Through a friend. Did he keep the silver shorts? Yes. Was the compensation adequate? Sufficient.) I woke Fred and recounted the conversation. After this extended dialogue with Davis, I concluded that experiences related to Gonzalez-Torres’s art, while deeply personal and intimate, are intended for sharing. His work has been described as “viral” in its dissemination beyond the confines of galleries and museums. “Untitled” (Go-Go Dancing Platform) is no exception. The go-go dance performances circulate online as social media content, allowing for connection and closer engagement – not only with Davis but also, perhaps, with the enduring legacy of Gonzalez-Torres himself.
Felix Gonzalez-Torres continues at David Zwirner (537 West 20th Street, Chelsea, Manhattan) through July 14.
