You can think what you want about her, but there’s no denying that Marina Abramović is brave as hell. It makes sense, too. She was born in Belgrade, Serbia to austere parents who were heavily involved in the Yugoslavian communist-led resistance during World War II. The performance artist talks about how growing up, her household was run like the military. Strict rules, physical punishment, and little affection. Her art serves as a pushback against this frigidity.

Abramović’s works explore the limits of the human body, but it’s also much more than that. It’s very obviously provocative and has begged the question a million times over: is this really art? (Which for the record, I don’t find to be a productive question at all. Why gate-keep? Who does that serve?)

Her art, mainly performance and film, touches on relationships, trust, connection, and human nature. In Rhythm 0 performed in 1974 in a Naples studio, Abramović laid 72 carefully chosen objects on a table and stood in the center of the gallery. She didn’t speak to anyone for the performance’s duration. Studio visitors were invited to participate by taking an object from the table and do whatever they want with it in relation to the artist’s motionless body.

Some of the objects were harmless like a rose, a feather, and a loaf of bread. But some were more dangerous like a knife, pair of scissors, scalpel, and a loaded pistol. She didn’t protest as visitors did what they wanted to her body for the duration of the performance: SIX HOURS. Talk about commitment to your art. Abramović says she feared for her life during the piece. People were more timid at first, but as time passed, they grew more confident in their power to do as they pleased. It was a classic and fascinating experiment on how far people will go if unbound. No rules. No punishment. Just the guilt you may live with when you hurt someone.

I remember hearing a story about the performance that has stuck with me to this day. As the six hours came to a close and Abramović moved away from her post at the center of the studio, visitors quickly became visibly uncomfortable. It’s as if they were reminded again that Abramović was a human with free will and agency, capable of feeling.

During Rhythm 0, one participant famously pointed the loaded gun to Abramović’s head, threatening to pull the trigger and kill her. She remained motionless, eyes fixed unwaveringly ahead as other visitors pulled the man away from her, hurtling what I’m sure was a chorus of “what the hell is wrong with you?”

Most of us have never been in a situation like this. Free of repercussion and the opportunity to enact any sort of act of love or revenge on a stranger. Sure there are people watching, but you don’t know them and will likely never cross paths with them again. Does that make it easier or harder to engage? Which object would you pick up? Would you resort to sadism?

Rhythm 0 is a look into the human psyche. It reveals how far people will go. How they’ll turn against each other, hurt each other, protect each other, people they don’t know, people they’ve only just met. I dunno, people are complex, man.

I wonder what Abramović was thinking when she walked out of that Italian studio in the morning light, half-naked, bloodied, and with the phantom feeling of strangers hands all over her body. Was she relieved to be alive after it all? Disgusted by the violent behavior the participants adopted? Did she feel foreign in her own body? Was she satisfied with the performance? I like to imagine she walked out of the studio feeling purged of her own unmet desires. Her own hidden self-serving longings–whatever they may be–often accompanied by shame and embarrassment. Because we all have them. Why lie?

Would I have held a loaded gun to Abramović’s temple? Probably not. But how can you know how you would behave in such circumstances? So many questions left unanswered, but that’s what art does. It asks questions without shame and sometimes it offers no answers. But not always. Rhythm 0 gave us some answers. This is what people will do. We are animals, after all.

Nicole Eisenman is an American painter and sculptor. She taught at Bard College and has been awarded numerous prizes and fellowships. She was also awarded a solo show at the New Museum. Made clear by the painting It is so among others, Eisenman’s art doesn’t show a traditional perspective. As a lesbian, Eisenman explores the intimacy, vulnerability, and complexity of queer relationships. Her other pieces explore death, family, faith, love, and solitude.

She explains that she draws from her personal life–friends, family, lovers–to inform her art. I think the most fascinating thing is the diversity of her hand. Figures on one canvas appear so differently from each other. Seriously, look at the below painting. Who is related to who?? What happened to the forlorn, traumatized dudes in the front?? Are they eating boobs??

It’s mesmerizing. I love the perspectives of her compositions too. We’re somehow taking part in the action. We are in the room or at the table, but sometimes it feels we’re not invited. There are expressions of disgust that make you almost uneasy. As is the case with It is so, watching a woman go down on another in the familiar comfort of their bedroom feels like an invasion of privacy. It doesn’t appear staged like porn is, it feels real. We don’t know the relationship of the two figures so I think there’s a degree of extrapolation and your interpretation likely says something about you.

The books of someone well-read stacked on the modest red plastic crate tell you more about Eisenman than anything else I think. But are these books an homage to the women she portrays? A summation of their personalities or their favorite reads? The Iliad, Emily Dickinson, Dürer, Picasso. An ode to her inspirations? Is this really a self-portrait? A fantasy? It’s not clear, but it doesn’t have to be.

I love the two budding flowers and repeated phrase hung in mustard yellow on the wall as if to remind. It’s so romantic. There’s such a gentle intimacy about the painting. The peacefulness of the napping cat, the clasped hands, even the soft gradients of Eisenman’s brush make it feel safe. It is so normalizes and celebrates lesbianism without making it a full-blown spectacle. It’s personal. Because they’re people. Engaging in something natural. For their own pleasure. Not anyone else’s.

Also known as CPLY, William N. Copley was an American painter, writer, gallery owner, publisher, and more. Seriously, this guy did it all and he still had time to be politically conscious. The first time I saw this work was at the Whitney Museum’s An Incomplete History of Protest exhibition and I thought it was a really powerful piece and straightforward in its message. But like most works, there’s more to it.

When I see a black pseudo-American flag sans stars, it feels as though pride has been drained from this notion of patriotism, a love and admiration for one’s country. No more vibrant red and blue, but black and white instead. It evokes more shame than it does pride. Severe imperfect black lines and the elongated word THINK. Think about what? The state of the nation and its treatment of its civilians possibly.

Copley painted this during the late 1960’s. Four years after the murder go Medgar Evers and three years after the murder of Reverend MLK Jr. Two years after its creation, Black Panther leader Fred Hampton would be drugged by an FBI undercover agent, mercilessly shot and killed by police as he lie sleeping next to his pregnant fiancee at home. The same year, Meredith Hunter, an 18 year old African-American man, would be stabbed at an outdoor music festival by a biker while the Rolling Stones played on stage. Notice a pattern? Black. White. Think.

Copley was white. It’s almost like he was pleading for other white people with their backs turned against the country’s raging race war to pay attention. To care. To THINK.

The long black strokes resemble the shoddy iron bars of a jail cell. Similar to the ones a disproportionate number of Black Americans sit behind. For drug charges that many white people get away with, for wrongful accusations, for petty crimes and broken windows policing. If we don’t think, we’re trapped in the prison of our own mind and our country becomes a jail. We become inmates as our rights are slowly stripped away from us. We’re easily controlled if we do not think. We’re not unlike cattle, thinking they have space to roam, but really contained within an electric fence. If we do not think, we fall prey to a dystopian newspeak.

Memorial Day weekend is coming up. I don’t think there’s anything more patriotic than recognizing the flaws inherent to your country and thinking about how they can be addressed and resolved. Essentially, thinking is patriotic. As is compassion for your fellow civilians. We must make an effort to actually align our policies and systems with the Pledge of Allegiance. Liberty and justice for all.

Have we been thinking since Copley painted this work in 1967? Or have we grown complicit?