1. construct a wall capable of holding a lot of stuff in a sticky, viscous veneer.
2. impregnate said sticky, viscous veneer with seashells.
2a. all such shells de mar must have their ridges pushed into the quagmiring veneer, that is to say, “allow their depths to be exposed to the plundering of the observant eye, the speculating touch of the finger.”
3. step back. invite others. marvel at the wrought.
4. leave town.
what is the difference between performance art and monologue?
what is the difference between performance art and absurdity?
is it the number of people involved?
is it the number of people watching?
and if we gave a showing and nobody came would we claim that it was all for the process?
i did a piece last night called alcoholism.
i didn’t invite anyone.
it went pretty well.
is it just that we call it performance art when maybe what we really are trying to do is just to get something out that nobody gets to?
like finally noticing this trait we seem to share of looking away when we speak to each other as if there was a moment in the spotlight just for us, where we could be the star, turning our heads just so, so that we can put on our best light.
two things: slavery and fucking or sex, if you believe it still exists…
i heard that some slaves after they were free, manumission,still wanted to be all they could have been, all they were promised, under the ownership system. surrounded by their own kind, the also newly freed, they could not let go. they were free, but they were still passing out the whip. who wants to be a star?
actually, let’s keep it at one thing. sex is suddenly very frightening for me to talk about.
mind if i smoke?
i did a piece last night that involved three people, no maybe four, it’s hard to say, called alcoholism.
originally, i was going to do a piece about dying for what you believe in. i was going to seal myself in a plastic bag and wait for one of you to realize that i was asphyxiating and let me out. you wouldn’t be a hero; you’d just be observant.
what i couldn’t decide on, though, was whether anyone would do it. then i thought i should get a confederate to free me if everybody just sat there. then i thought i would time it and write a small passage that you could read and realize-to in time to figure out that you better get that bag open before i died.
it wouldn’t have been obvious. just something about personal responsibility in a time of crisis. a need to stop being so alone and reach out to other people and give of yourself without taking in return.
but if you have to ask.
i can see you.
so no plastic bag. i thought it would be a bummer to die in in a public forum, in front of all of you good people. because not everyone can read that fast.
and not everyone can read.
and not everyone.
so i thought to what the end of performance might be. and i thought that if we just didn’t DO anything, just WERE , it would be the ultimate. there is so much left to be said about not doing anything.
but that’s boring.
this isn’t clever. this is just a response to being invited here.
i don’t know what performance art is. but if i was really in love, i would stand outside their window every night and set up a huge letter from their name and put it to flame every night. and there would be a band playing. and flowers exploding from cannons, maybe.
and all my performances would be personal.
i did a piece last night called alcoholism.
and i raised a glass to you.
monologue from a performance piece done for the defunkt artwar collective in seattle, summer of 2006