In Shelly Silver’s frog spider hand horse house, the effort of all things to keep existing has been observed by someone with a camera who seems, as far as personality goes, to be no one. This acutely neutral watcher — curious and patient, pushing very close and holding steady there, registers the super-focused effort of all creatures toward the expression of vitality, the stubborn going-on in time of particularly shaped and textured bodies. Animate gesture captivates the moving-image artist: A wide-winged bat, agile and awkward at the same time, clambers up the netting of a net. A horse turns its broad white face toward the lens. A frog slowly expels something disgusting; teenagers, in chorus practice harmonies; a pianist runs through Beethoven’s Sonata Opus 106, Adagio sostenuto. But life is not the only measure of change-in-time, and Silver watches the multicolored frog-kite drifting out of frame, or the road-killed squirrel nestling on the asphalt, with as much attention as she gives to comfy middle-aged white people learning t’ai chi, or first graders being trained to play nicely together in their circle-game. They might not notice that their song describes the mechanism of the universe: