I first learned of Marina Abramovic while studying performance art as an undergraduate at Alfred University with Laurel Jay Carpenter. As part of her teaching, Laurel would sometimes have my classmates and I emulate performances, like Marina and Ulay’s Nightsea Crossing, as a springboard to learning to create and collaborate in our own performance pieces. From this grew a huge appreciation for performance art. Four years had passed since Alfred and I felt drawn to the chair opposite Marina like a moth to a light bulb. It’s hard to elaborate on this urge I felt to sit with Marina. It was magnetic. I saw importance in the artist’s retrospective. In particular, a retrospective for an artist still living and in which she participated.
My husband, Will, and I were newly engaged and we planned to spend time in New York to celebrate. We planned our trip around the exhibition and traveled 260 miles from Corning, New York.
We sat with Marina on May 19, 2010. From the moment we got up that morning, I felt like I was preparing myself mentally and physically for the day, just like Laural had taught us. Brushing teeth, Metro line changes. All activities I had performed many times before. They all felt calculated and important. We arrived at the museum just after 7am and a line was already forming outside. I believe it was shortly after 9am when we were allowed into the museum lobby. Lines from various entrances merged and suddenly, the number of people trying to get a decent spot in line multiplied. The morning suddenly got a bit frantic. We hadn’t purchased tickets in advance and now we needed to figure out how to take care of this and keep spots in line. The museum allowed us into the lobby prior to the ticket lines opening, however the membership desk was staffed. We were quick to learn that for guests without tickets or current memberships a new membership meant access to the exhibition. Finally, just before 10:30am, when the museum and the exhibition officially opened, we were allowed into the gallery at the bottom of the atrium steps. From here you could see the glowing lights of the performance. When security finally allowed us up those stairs, you first caught sight of Marina’s back. The line moved quickly and keeping in stride with the rest of the group, Will pointed at the chair opposite Marina and said, “That’s Kim Cattrall!” The actress was already seated and our day of watching, observing, and of course, more waiting, began.
Seventeen others were ahead of us in line to sit with Marina and while I felt confident that we would get to participate, I knew there was the possibility we might not. This became apparent when Kim Cattrall opened the performance with Marina by sitting for an hour. The other wild card to getting into that chair was Paco Blancas. He was among the group ahead of us, and the gossip of the line was that there was no telling how long he intended to sit that day and I was already aware that MoMA’s website had reported him as visiting and sitting more than a dozen times since the start of the performance.
When I finally sat, it was 4:00 pm. Staring at Marina staring back at me, innumerable thoughts were going though my head. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking, contemplate aspects of my past since first learning of the performer, and with the slight tilt of her head, feel like it wasn’t an internal monologue, but an active conversation. Wordless and tense and energetic, yet delicate and beautiful, like two molecules yearning for the other’s outer electrons. Once sitting, I lost reference of how much time had passed. Our gaze broke and then in was over. Six minutes later.
The second time I committed to a full day’s wait at the museum, I glanced up from my mobile just in time to watch someone walk away from the chair. As the middle aged woman strutted smugly, with an unforgettable, lifted swaggering of the shoulders, Marina crumbled a little. Cleansing her emotional palate took a little longer than we had been used to seeing. And a strangely grotesque feeling passed through my stomach, like an invisible current; a wandering illness.
Until that point, I had wanted to sit with Marina to experience a silent dialogue completely dependent on a setting where representations of the female body are usually cast, painted or drawn into the inanimate. The appeal was to animate the female form in a museum, while remaining still as a statue. After witnessing Marina’s reaction to this particular sitter, my motivation shifted from curiosity of form to embodiment of sustenance.
When I first saw the show in March, sitting with Marina wasn’t imperative. Strolling by her in the bright square of the atrium seemed sufficient. After seeing the retrospective again, something clicked and a decision surfaced — I would try: to animate form within confinement, in direct dialogue with an expert at doing just that. This curiosity led me to stand and sit for three full days on queue. (And some previous feeble attempts; an hour here, two hours there, but feeble is not a useful word in the context of Abramovic. Even as a viewer it’s full dedication or nothing.) I succeeded on the third full day, with new friends cheering me on. What, was I not hungry enough? Did I not want this? Why was I so hung up on arriving with dignity, as my ankles were kicked and my small feet stomped? On day 61, I speed-walked, with a determined dignity on full-throttle.
The fellow who sat with her before my turn hugged me before leaving, depositing a renewed strength of happiness into my arms. The guard signaled, I walked to the chair and sat. Immediately, (to overcome shyness) I placed the right index finger on my left inner wrist, beat-matching breath to the vascular organ. Within several moments of focused calm and under Marina’s warm gaze, I relaxed. The circus sidelining the perimeter melted away.
Her first glimpse of me began with my shoes. Marina’s gaze brightened, towards the benign acknowledgment that precedes the union of strangers. The most overwhelming emotion wasn’t nervousness but an intense desire to deflect the direct harshness of strobes. Sitting still seemed easier than connecting with endless pairs of eyes under such probing light. Most of what I remember isn’t easily rendered verbally, but in approximation: intense, focused, open. That space between clavicle and lower rib flooded open, wildly. I didn’t anticipate nourishment to have rushed from there, but it did.
For me, Marina’s work carries severe Buddhist undertones: combining tenacity of spirit and discipline of mind towards a transcending. In Buddhism, feet symbolize presence. How fitting, that she met each sitter by first acknowledging their feet. What better language for grounding the transcendent? If Buddhist theory is applied to the space between chairs, all forms of presence (being, mind, body) begin with showing up and taking seat. My black linen Chinese slippers now remind me of that power; the power of observance in tenacity, and vice versa.
Although I assured my new friends I would only take ten minutes, (“but it might be two, or maybe twenty…”), I didn’t want to be a devourer. But, just in case, I asked Andrew Youngman to walk into my field of vision and signal, were I to remain beyond thirty minutes. Wasn’t necessary—I stayed ten minutes exactly without keeping track of time or breath.
This exhibit brought out the best and worst. In simple shock at the fury of fandom, a yogi musician behind me (in fabulous espadrilles) noted “Everyone is just hurrying to get somewhere, but if they realized that there’s no where to go—we could all just be.” Waiting was part of it, tolerance was key: not becoming overwhelmed by the neediness of others. Also, joy: witnessing love as language in those who were respectful. And, of course, observing disparaging comments here and there from passerbys. When art lovers complain about Marina’s work as an attack on the female form, have they not contemplated “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon”? Or “Woman, I”? Did they not notice Marina hovering as Saint Teresa? So many questions.
On the last day of the performance, a thunder of clapping soared and echoed from the atrium out to the museum doors. A few A-listers were there, completely obscured among the reoccurring faces on the Flickr diary, who were there, basking in a haze of instant micro-celebrity. Marina bowed graciously, surrounded by her troupe and made her way out of the spotlight, flanked by body guards and the grateful adoration of her loyal set. On my way out, I greeted familiar faces, some of whom didn’t get a chance to sit with Marina but remained authentically invested in the possibilities of the work as creation/recreation, as community, as life, as eternal. Their dedication is not captured in a Flickr portrait; or a webcam capture—but they were there. And they were quite present.
i feel like the piece started last night when i decided to go to bed to get up early to go to the moma. started having anxiety dreams all night that i’d missed it.got up this morning with singleness of purpose, got to the museum at 9:15, already a cluster of people outside. kept very much to myself, doors opened at 10am and people who had passes/memberships (i had a press pass) rushed to the ticket takers. i saw that guy, paco, who’s gone like twenty times and cried every time, so i figured i was on to a good strategy.
at 10:15 they let us through the ticket gates and we all sort of collected at the bottom of that atrium, before the three steps. security guard came out and said “please don’t run. don’t run. just walk. you are all number one here. if someone has given you a ticket, tear it up.” (apparently people had been giving out rogue number assignments.) i’d been talking to someone by that point so we divided/conquered - she went around the pillar one way, me another. this was just the most extreme instance of sort of trying to game the system, of feeling like it was a challenge. to win, what, literally some time sitting across from someone.
very quickly walked up the stairs, this huge mass of people just speedwalking, and the girl i’d been talking to got ahead of me. paco was between us, and in a moment of crazy blackout fear/anxiety i totally slipped under his outstretched arm to go in front of him. he was like “you are behind me.” i was like “omg i am so sorry i completely lost all sense of appropriateness.”
so then we waited for seven hours. i think we stood for about two and then decided to sit down, then stood again, then sat down, etc. patricia - by this point we knew each others’ names and i made friends with this couple, will and andrew, who were behind us. and we sort of started noticing how we were acting, counting people in line, starting to get fritzy, but also feel sort of smug towards the people that were behind us in line. at first we were really watching marina, the other people. then we just started chatting. then we’d go back to focusing on the art.
so finally, 3pm, paco’s in front of me, he goes, and i start getting reaaaaally nervous, like anxious, like i realize there are all these people watching, and then the security guard says that i’m almost up, and paco leaves, and marina sort of adjusts herself and at this point my heart just starts pounding literally faster/harder than it’s ever before.
so i walk up and sit down and completely freak out. i can’t breathe normally - i keep catching on the exhale. like i’m almost laughing? but i’m not. and i’m focusing on her eyes, and it’s kind of too much and the noise is all of a sudden really loud. and i can’t inhale/exhale normally. like i’ve forgotten how to breathe. i’m trying to yoga count - 1 2 3 4 in, 1 2 3 4 out - but i keep getting stuck on this really weird exhale. and i swear i feel like her eyes are kind of holding me, like saying “it’s ok, it’s ok, i’m here.” kind of like in sophomore year i was tripping really hard on ecstasy/pot and a friend of mine just held me there with his eyes. and after about five minutes of this crazy breathing freakout, i finally get it to a good 1234 in 1234 out place. and i start switching between her eyes, looking at her face, and we’re sort of connecting. but then we’re not. and then it’s just eyes. and then it starts getting fuzzy. really bright lights, and then it’s like all the rest of the people there are really loud, and then it’s just silence. at some point i close my eyes for a second, just to chill, and open them back up and like zoom in on her face and it’s bright white. and then i decide to focus between her eyes on the bridge of her nose, and her face takes on these totally different proportions. and then finally i’m just breathing and there and present. and i’d asked one of the guys to go behind her and make a signal at 20 minutes so that i would leave - but also so that i’d be able to stay for more than three minutes w/out freaking out that i was taking too long. because time just stops operating.
at that point i got really selfish. even though i’d made friends with these people in line - and some had come from ithaca, minnesota, brazil, etc - i just wanted to stay longer. and i was like, even if he comes to signal, i’m going to stay. it was this totally weird flip of just wanting to stay in the experience. and then the 1234 counting felt too loud - like i wanted to have something else in my head. so then this internal monologue started of - “you’re not present enough. get present. get present.” and i couldn’t without counting.
and then!
i realized i’d been sitting with my back right up against the chair back - and so i moved, just imperceptibly, forward a little bit. straightened up and disconnected my back from the chair. and she straightened up too, moved forward, towards me. and this was the first physical sign of acknowledgement, the first communication that went beyond eyes, and it felt so searingly intimate that i just kind of couldn’t handle it anymore, so i tried to stay there, and did for about three more minutes. and then i closed my eyes and just really really slightly nodded my head down and looked up and her eyes were closed and she was nodding her head down, so i got up and left.
and then i kind of stood against the wall really shaky and kind of sat on the floor and leaned against the wall and was like holy shit. that was bananas.
so that is what i felt. what i saw in her eyes was - at first total warmth. like this amazing feeling of her totally understanding what i was freaking out about and how, and just kind of holding me through it… and then curiosity. and then when i finally got my breathing under control, a sort of relaxation. looking into someone’s eyes for that long, though, i kind of stopped connecting with them as eyes. they just became sort of shapes. and then i’d be jarred back into - wow, i’m looking into another person’s eyes. for a really long time.
and then even as i write this i think, no, that’s just all b/c of expectation and really nothing all that much happened. but it was experientially remarkable.
so yes. i am glad that i woke up early and went. and manufactured excuses to be in new york while she was here.
Performance artist Marina Abramovic is sitting in a chair at MoMA every day, from opening to closing, and doing absolutely nothing but staring into the eyes of every visitor who sits in the chair opposite her. She takes no breaks, doesn’t eat or drink, barely moves except to close her eyes and lower her head between visitors, and she’ll perform this act every day the museum is open until the end of May. That’s seven hours a day, six days a week, for more than three months. And 9 1/2 hours on Fridays. I wanted to experience the performance and sit across from Marina.
On Monday, I arrived at MoMA at 9:45 to be near the front of the line entering the exhibits, and when 10:30 arrived, I joined a fast-walking crowd up the stairs to form the line to sit with Marina. Five people were already in line ahead of us and one was already sitting — these were the VIPs who were, it was rumored, friends of the artist, or performers from her other pieces now showing at MoMA, or connected with the museum. About five other people were in front of me in the rest of the line. Throughout the day, the line behind us grew and shrank and grew again, but as far as I know, a total of about 14 or 16 people sat across from Marina that day. The frightening thing was that some people earlier during the run had sat down across from Marina and not gotten up for seven hours. I was hoping I wasn’t that unlucky.
From talking to people in line, I learned that there is no typical experience. Some people found sitting with Marina to be meditation-like. Others found too much distraction from the crowd around us. One woman had already sat 13 times. A man named Paco was in line behind me trying for his fifteenth sitting. Less than half of us were first-timers. Twin high school girls were in line directly behind me with their parents — one was determined to sit, the other had decided not to. (When her time came, the second girl sat, too, and I watched her from across the room in my post-Marina haze.) I had only a vague concept of the passing time as we waited — one minute it was 11:00 and then suddenly it was 12:15. Throughout the day I talked a lot with a woman named Lisa in line right in front of me, who was on her second time sitting. When her turn came at around 2:30, the MoMA guard first went to the table and moved the chair aside because Lisa is in a wheelchair. Lisa later told me that Marina showed a flash of recognition when she saw her across the table.
I was nervous as my time arrived (which seemed to be a typical feeling). As I walked out to the table, I made a point of looking around at the crowd, but I couldn’t really absorb it. I still didn’t know what to expect as I sat in the wooden chair and pressed my back against its back, placed my feet flat on the floor, spread my palms on my thighs, and looked at Marina.
Marina raised her head and opened her eyes, and I immediately found the experience overwhelmingly intense. For the first two minutes, I doubted I was going to be able to stay. At the same time, I felt I would be a failure if I left quickly and I forced myself to sit.
The first thing I realized is that I was stripped of all ability to convey any sort of social cue — to be engaging, reassuring, or inquiring — anything — and I could get nothing back from her. I felt completely helpless, and I found myself worried that I was being judged by Marina in some way, compared with all the people who had come before, and I had no way to respond. But as that gradually passed, I found my surroundings very distracting. Guards waved at people trying to take photos, people would sit down within my field of view to stare at me — though I never stopped staring into Marina’s eyes, not for the entire half hour, I could see this all in my peripheral vision. And then, very gradually, the surroundings faded and no longer mattered. I went through a slowly evolving string of feelings — a huge amount of empathy for Marina, for example, because she looked so incredibly tired. And then I had the sudden feeling that I was receiving a wonderful gift, one artist to another, through this physical sacrifice she was making. It was almost delusional, believing that she was there in order to fill me with some sort of indefinable injection of artistic energy. I felt like a vampire.
At times I also found I needed to stretch my back a little. Move my hands. Pull my feet back. I’m old, I stiffen up. I wanted to stare into one of Marina’s eyes, but I found myself looking back and forth between them. Marina seemed to be staring just at one of my eyes, and at times she almost seemed like she was in danger of falling asleep. I thought her eyes were odd, then I thought they were beautiful. She seemed very sad, then not sad at all. I never reached anything that could be described as a meditative state, as some people in line described.
And then all of a sudden, maybe halfway through my time, everything was different. I suddenly knew, somehow, that she and I had become equal on some level — I had somehow finally lost all concern about being judged, or about judging her, or any other self consciousness and we were connecting on equal terms — not equal as artists, obviously, but I knew I was there taking what she was offering, and I was also giving her what she wanted from me. Our eyes were locked on equal terms — somehow. This was the most mystical feeling of my sitting and the most important, even though I can’t tell whether it was ridiculous or sublime. It all sounds rather new-agey, which I dislike, but the feeling was strong and it rolled over me like a wave and changed my whole experience of the sitting.
From that point on, I was comfortable sitting there. I felt like I was both giving and getting. I had reached a place I hadn’t specifically predicted before hand, but that I had wanted, somehow, nonetheless. I thought I had gone in with no preconceptions, but actually I would have been very disappointed if I had not had some sort of transformative experience. I almost smiled — but I discovered it’s hard to smile there, with Marina and in that crowd.
I stayed long enough to enjoy that state, probably another ten minutes, and then I was simply drained and it was time for me to go. But as I readied myself to get up, I saw — or thought I saw — two drops of water hit the table between us, just to my right of center, as if they’d fallen from a leaky roof. Drop, drop, just like that. Without taking my eyes from Marina’s I scowled for just a second. Marina didn’t react at all, but I was sure I hadn’t imagined it. I made a mental note to mention it to the guard (a leaky roof?) but then forgot all about it. I still have no idea what happened or whether it happened.
I was drained, and I knew I could stand up and leave with no regrets. So after a couple of false starts — am I leaving too soon? maybe it was only fifteen minutes? will I be sorry I got up? — I took a deep breath and closed my eyes and bowed my head, which allowed Marina to break the connection and close her eyes and lower her head, and then I stood and turned and walked out of the square. I wanted to talk about the experience, but I wasn’t yet able to put any of it into words except to tell the others that it was very very intense.
Afterward I stayed long enough to watch two others sit, and I talked to Lisa to compare notes that only another sitter could understand (I told her that one time was enough). I spent some time talking to the official photographer Marco, which was fun — his photos alone are a very cool project. I saw a gallery owner I know, James Danziger, and chatted with him. I wanted to stay. I wanted to keep the feeling and stay with people who had experienced it. But it was time to leave, and I felt sad to go.
24 hours later, I’m still thinking about the experience, letting it sink in, enjoying the memory, making sense of it.
I was the second to last person of the day.All afternoon, I was anxious that I wouldn’t get to sit at all.But then it was my turn, and I was walking towards her, and I was so excited I could barely keep myself from running to the chair.And when she looked up and met my gaze, my mind just went
Oh my GOD!MARINA!CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?WE’RE HERE, MARINA!WE’RE HERE!You and me!We’re HERE.
In my mind, I told her the whole story of how I’d first heard of her over a dozen years ago, and how it had blown me away.
I told her how glad I was to sit with her, how this was my last chance because I was leaving the country that week, and how very lucky all this made me feel.
And in my mind, as I told her these things, I was also aware that I was imagining her hearing them.And then I realized how crazy this was.
But how could I stop?My mind had gone totally logorrheic.
Like a first conversation with a long-lost friend, like prayer on amphetamines, a floodgate had opened, and the only thing that could staunch the senseless babble was the dimly heckling thought that the girl who had been waiting behind me in line all day was also leaving the country that week.It would be unfair to take a few extra minutes sitting with Marina at the expense of another person’s chance to sit with her at all.I felt keenly that she was giving, giving, giving all of us a precious gift, and that it would be wrong to prevent another person from receiving it.
This gift – what was it?And what was she receiving from us in return?
I thought of the meditation courses I’ve done: sitting for over ten hours a day, for ten days, full silence for the duration.I remembered the physical pain and the incessant mental chatter.I wondered whether Marina’s back hurt, if her legs were asleep, where her mind was wandering.And I considered the most noticeable difference between the work I did there and the work she was doing here: that her eyes were open, and constantly fixed on the eyes of whomever she sat opposite.
I felt myself desperately trying to send universal loving-kindness to her through my gaze, but there is only so much a gaze can do.And with this realization, there came another: that what was happening between us was just a stripped-down, purified version of what every interaction is.Whether we are talking or listening or touching, there is only so much that language or touch can do, in the service of communication.But talking and touching pose a potentially greater danger than looking does: they more easily create the delusional impression that given = received, that what I say to you is the same as what you hear.The reality, of course, is that we can never really know another person – the contents of a mind, the motives of a heart.A great divide is always there.
Exchanging and holding a gaze makes this clear: that communication is just made up of an intention and a perception.Trust and faith can mortar the gaps between them but cannot make them what they are not.They are not equal, and they are not the same.
What you intend ≠ what I perceive.Given ≠ received.It is not a direct exchange.
I took this realization itself as a precious gift.Even in the awareness that it was just my own perception.
But there was so much more that she was giving with her presence.
As in so much of her work, she gave us the space to observe ourselves – to see how we act and react, when presented with situations over which we finally have control – and the opportunity to recognize these actions and reactions as the self-portraits that they are.
By presenting us (in great and simple ways) with the important and universal and complicated things that we, as humans, are about, she helps us articulate our own humanity to ourselves.
That is my attempt to describe it, anyhow – but what are paltry, paltry words compared with the great and simple present of being present?
Because, of course, that is what she was giving us.
The artist is present.Of course.
What she gave us was something we long for, whether or not we acknowledge it.
“Be here for me.”
“I want your undivided attention.”
Dear humans!Be careful what you wish for!
Is it any wonder that finally receiving this gift drives so many of us to tears?
From the moment that I sat down with Marina until I got up, I could not stop smiling nor crying.The sheer force of gratitude was overwhelming, and there was simply no other way to let it out.She smiled and cried too.
This was my own right of passage. I just got married to my work as a performance artist. Marina was my Priestess.
I sat with Marina dressed as a bride the last Saturday of her performance. I waited a total of 21 hours on 3 separate occasions but sat just once, for 30 minutes. On my third attempt I was successful. My girlfriend and I camped out in front of the MoMA, we arrived at 2:15 am. There were 13 people ahead of us. It felt like a competition to be one of the first in line. The line got longer throughout the night, but we made friends. Luckily my friend drove her minivan so we had the comfort to take naps in the van. When we got into the atrium, as the first to be able to sit with her, I got the chills. There was now a time limit, 30 minutes maximum per person, so I knew that by around 3:30 pm I’d be very fortunate to sit with her.I felt like I’d won the lottery.
Marina is my idol. I looked at her work when I first was introduced to performance art. Now, as a performance artist myself, I felt that I belonged in that arena with her and would carry on the torch in some way.
I expected to have a conversation with her through the eyes, and I did. Upon my arrival she smiled at me like I was a child of hers. She knew what I was contemplating as I sat there in front of her dressed as a bride wearing white to match her. She was my priestess. I was actually marrying art in the chapel. Maybe I was also confronting the institution in which this all took place.
It was a moment of a lifetime for me. My sit with Marina was meant to be very personal as I decided to commit my life to my art. She was the ideal person to initiate that for me. Yet my friends felt I was challenging Marina by using her as a prop for my own performance. Maybe I was.
Knew Marina’s work and read some of her interviews. She is from the former Yugoslavia country that even does not exist anymore. And there is the connection. I would skip it originally because reminder of the Yugoslavia is often very painful rarely grotesque like thinking about car Yugo. Since Dana my youngest daughter was going over and over to see her I decided to go myself just to accompany her to stay overnight in the front of the museum to be able to sit at the final day of the exhibit.
Whole experience was great.
Sitting with Marina was and still is a total rainbow experience from tears and sadness to joy and clarity. And Gypsy experience in which passion for life is amplified with inescapable sadness and love.
Both times I was the last one to sit, the first her last 2 minutes or so, the next her last 5 minutes of the day. Neither time was enough to really settle into the feeling of meeting her, but both were enough to feel her. I was nervous, sweaty and shaking, feeling a little faint.
Upon sitting across from Marina I noticed one eye was a different color green than the other, more yellowish and catlike. Beautiful.
The second time my heart was beating so fast it made me feel sort of sick. Staring with Marina helped me breathe deeper and slowed my heart down. I’ve kept that feeling with me since.
There was a feeling of euphoria as I walked from MoMA to the train, in my own world, Marina still with me.
I’ve been a fan of Marina’s work for years, and living in New York made it easier for me to attempt a sitting. What I didn’t expect was the wait, the amount of people who also wanted to interact with her. The pushiness, the cult-like phenomenon of being with Marina was disturbing. While waiting on line I heard many stories and met interesting people. One person who sat while I was there was on LSD, there was the mythology of previous sitters, the bragging about how long one had sat with her and how many times, the bitchy lady who took it upon herself to enforce rules no one else seemed to notice. It got pretty overwhelming after 7 hours, but faded away after having the opportunity to sit in that chair. It’s all part of the experience.
It’s easier to gaze into a face than into a blank page.In the reflection of another’s image we can always find some affirmation of ourselves.But the simplicity of looking directly into an other is something we don’t allow ourselves.It’s too intense, too intimate.We do it with pets or babies, sometimes with our lovers-rarely elsewhere.Sitting and gazing under the auspices of a renowned cultural institution, thousands of watts of hot klieg lights, cameras and observers is a fetishization.The point seems to be to pay attention….to attention.Yours and someone else’s.Who happens to be an expert on the practice of paying attention to herself.So is this narcissism?Not necessarily; I don’t know if I can explain why it is not.There’s suffering in it, a deep quiet kind.I know this kind of suffering.It’s not showy or melodramatic but it is arresting; the kind of suffering that arises from intense physical exertion, mental exertion, forcing yourself to be in it, unflinching.It pushes you through to another place where the suffering doesn’t quite disappear but it no longer matters.It can look like narcissism.The huge portraits at the exhibition entrance look more like narcissism to me.But to sit, every day, spend three months of your waking life in the same damn chair- that’s glorifying suffering.How deep a gift of time, of your energy.I doubt I would do it.When I sat, it felt both longer and shorter than it was.Performance time is strange like that; it’s elastic and unpredictable.The internal clocks don’t function.
I’ve had discussions about problems inherent in the piece - the institutionalization of ephemera (all art, really), the cult of celebrity, the glorification of ‘experience’.Watching the light flicker, the attention focus down to a dense field, simple and compelling.Lengthened attention spans are rarer and rarer.So why the framework of art, the museum, the cameras and audience?The problem of the institution, and mortality, preservation, and commodification raises its ugly head; it can’t really be vanquished.Who records the history and remembers?Each one who sits remembers differently, each consciousnesswho sits, observes, exchanges, also interprets, remembers and is recognized.This surprised me most - the strange sense of recognition….
