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.
- Joe Holmes
