The preferred currency of performance art is shock, or so the greatest hits tell us. Chris Burden had his arm blasted with a .22-calibre rifle. Vito Acconci masturbated under a wooden ramp and stalked people on the streets of New York City. Carolee Schneemann thrashed around in paint, raw meat, and dead fish, and pulled a scroll out of her vagina. Marina Abramović allowed gallery goers to abuse her for six hours. Hermann Nitsch crucified lambs and bulls, and Joseph Beuys attempted cohabitation with a coyote.

If this kind of work deeply upsets you—and by upsets, I don’t mean provokes questions about social norms or the ethics of suffering but whips you into a high-minded speech about what is and what is not “art”—then it would be wise to avoid the new Tehching Hsieh retrospective at Dia Be

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