In 2018, MoMA put on a stunning retrospective of Bruce Nauman’s work. One installation uniquely drew me in and kept me spinning in its magnetism, disoriented and enamored and sick. At first glance, Green Horses seems fatuous. A projector on a cardboard box illuminating an inverted, washed-out video of a man riding a horse. The sky is purple. The ground a dusty, haunted blue. The horse and rider are green, and repeated on two additional monitors in the corner. An empty chair faces the wall. This is a silent spectacle.
But why did it bear such enchantment? Who was holding the camera? Why did it shake and dip? Were the heavens mounted upon this nauseous earth? Was the horse riding the man? Would the legs gallop astray, swiveling out to the cosmos, our flimsy fractured universe? Was I supposed to sit?
Nauman has spent the past forty-five years in New Mexico. Immediately he seems like a joker. There’s waggish thrill to his images. But underneath, things get more sinister. Before his art career took off, Bruce was in the business of breaking and selling horses. A cruel reminder of capital. It’s easy to admire majestic creatures for their intelligence and grace. Still, captivity at mans’ hands must always be taken for granted.
I live in Dutchess County, alongside New York’s highest concentration of equines. Mostly for show, racing, and dressage, they’re a sight to behold on winter drives to my office at the foot of Winchell Mountain. This morning was clear but for the smoke of my breath. The windchill read 3°F, and as I crossed the frosted pastures on my way into Millerton, I watched the many familiar horses snort and kick. Among them, one sprawled out lying dead. And I drove right on by it. What was I supposed to do? Biscuit spots bloating in the gelid air. I had to get to work. Solar glare left the ghost of these spots, purple and green, blinking through tears on my way, on and on.
-David Fishkind