Kevin, who is 39, is in torn jeans, a plain black T-shirt and scuffed black running shoes. He has long, unruly locks and a mustache that crawls, sluglike, down the sides of his chin. He could pass for a stoner selling used guitars.
His wife, 38, is notably more tidy. She sits near him wearing fresh khakis, a flowery green vest over a clean white shirt (untucked, because she’s pregnant with their second child ) and sparkly little flats. Her straight hair is cut at girlish shoulder length.
[Their recent show in LA] is typical McCoy. It’s built around the cultural theories they were both schooled in in France — structuralism and its descendant, deconstruction — which emphasize the constructedness of all experience. The theories insist, that is, that culture, including silly children’s books, conditions everything we think we know about our world, such as what counts as “special” and “scary,” and maybe also how girls and boys will “naturally” think. (The installations, say the McCoys, were partly inspired by watching Ginger, their 2-year-old daughter.)
But instead of mouthing off about such things, the McCoys’ art tries to flesh them out and test them: If our mental and cultural world is supposed to be constructed, then they’ll craft building blocks of sense and a machine that lets us watch them being put together into an edifice of meaning.