By Suzanne Carbonneau
There is nothing more thrilling for art-goers than the moment of encounter with an artist whose work is so singular as to make us feel that we will never see art—or the world—in quite the same way again. This is what keeps even the most jaded among us going back to theaters and galleries: the idea that we will emerge different people than we were when we had entered.
That experience of transformation is, of course, a rarity. We can love art, we can admire it, even be awed by it, but not be fundamentally changed by it. That happens only with the work of artists who upend our assumptions about what art can do or be, about who we are or can be.
Lucinda Childs is precisely this kind of transformative artist.