A window into a living room. A window into modernism. The Club for Modern Fashions. A structure à la Mies van der Rohe, inside a building by his student and facing the surviving remnants, a displaced staircase, from Mies’ very first glass building. At the same time a comedy, not of errors but of silence, like Jacques Tati’s Playtime: life exposed, unfolding, moving, but you can’t hear what’s going on. Finally we see a performance for six actors, a time machine where clothes make the woman or the man. She from the 1920s, he from the 30s. A woman returned from the 1940s, a man stuck in the 50s. A lady hosting the 60s, with a leering 1970s man nearby. We pass around this room, this vitrine, this capsule of multi-times, a costume drama of exaggerated gestures.

A pavilion built in collaboration with the architect John Vinci and a performance produced with the Arts Club of Chicago. And now an overlapping slideshow about the terrifying prescience of Mr. Adolf Loos, that to be modern, is to be on time—a touch of Godot but hopefully Lucy and Desi too.