Some show venues are like abstract art: You get it or you don’t. That there is apparently a creative thrill in having guests arrive to a pitch-black show space and worry about tripping while feeling their way to their seats continues to confound after many years of pondering.
That out of the way, guests to Stuart Vevers’ Coach 1941 show at Basketball City on the East River found themselves in a weird forest, its trees devoid of greenery and any signs of life but for video monitors projecting the trees, which would go haywire once the show started. “A spectral charm,” the show notes promised. And charm it did, in its moody-broody way. Soon, the wooded den was populated by a brigade of goth prairie girls, glum but ever so stylish, joined by layered up male companions, their own disaffected-youth getups integrating some sports-derived pieces here and there.
Since his arrival at Coach, Vevers has built a strong, engaging identity for the brand, grounded in his outsider’s fascination with the American West, which he interprets in a manner suited to urban realities. “I love the American West,” he said during a preview. “But it’s seen through the eyes of a house that’s