Jennifer Moon’s revolution, if not exactly televised, at least involves a few live feeds. One of two long glass cases at Equitable Vitrines, built into the lobby of Koreatown’s skyscraping Equitable Building, houses a row of flat-screen monitors linked to cameras in Moon’s apartment. “How can we really see a person?” asked Moon at a recent panel. “How can I really see myself?” Putting yourself under surveillance is certainly one approach. 24/7 views of kitchen, hallway, bedroom, bathroom (a tasteful angle), even her car, aim to strip pretense, drop guard, open the private to “unmediated” public view. On one occasion, we see the artist squat by her dog’s bowl to check her phone; on another, she belts out Katy Perry at her laptop.

Lines from Fleetwood Mac, Michael Jackson, Perry decorate the glass, too: a manifesto for a revolution built on pop-song love—and just as heartbreakingly hard to actualize. Around the corner, a speculative science-fair display of green poster boards illustrated with CCTV cameras and headshots of Continental philosophers argues for a “Panopticon of love.” For Moon, our own feelings of inadequacy are what trap us in tragically private lives. But the definitions of acceptable behavior vary widely—as is made clear by a plaque that reads, in part, “Jennifer has made alterations to her natural way of being out of respect for the management’s request that there be no nudity.” Would that it were so easy to retool oppression as self-scrutiny. At the far right of the posters sits the most clear formulation of Moon’s wistful philosophy of exhibitionist self-love: a cutaway model of a eukaryotic cell captioned with a little plastic tab: “Cell, please love me.” Equitable warden, please set me free.

— Travis Diehl