When I first saw “The Artist Is Present,” I didn’t really get it. The famous performance artist Marina Abramovic was sitting at a simple wood table, wearing a crimson gown. Museum visitors lined up for the chance to sit opposite her. Both people sat unmoving, staring at each other. When the visitor decided they’d had enough, they got up to leave. Marina remained in her chair for seven hours straight, six days a week.
There was something riveting about this spectacle. Marina had undeniable charisma. The image evoked for me was of some powerful woman out of the Mabinogion, not necessarily entirely benign. I thought of this novel I’d loved as a kid called Wise Child, in which a girl goes to live in a hut with a witch, who teaches her mysterious things. The cover art really stayed with me, by the wonderful illustrators Leo and Diane Dillon.
I then went up to the sixth floor of the MOMA, which has a retrospective of Marina’s past work, including live re-performances of several pieces by younger performers, many of them nude. I was blown away.
Some pieces struck me as incredibly tender and idealistic, like the van hung with erotic photos in which Marina and her lover/collaborator Ulay drove repeatedly around a Paris traffic circle. He drove, while she announced the number of rotations through a megaphone, until the motor gave out. At the end, the road was marked with a circular groove. This was funny and sad, and it made me nostalgic for a youth I never had. The following manifesto appears in the van:
Art Vital
no fixed living-place
permanent movement
direct contact
local relation
self-selection
passing limitations
taking risks
mobile energy
no rehearsal
no predicted end
no repetition
Some pieces were shocking. I found it impossible to watch the video of Marina brushing her hair so violently that it fell out in clumps. I got tears in my eyes when I read about the performance in which she took a medication prescribed to catatonics, which gave her violent convulsions, then a medication prescribed to schizophrenics, which made her lose consciousness. As Ethan later remarked, all of the technical details of the pieces were perfect. There was a deep intelligence and honesty at work, which made this the antithesis of pretension.
In “Luminosity,” a naked woman sat suspended on a bicycle seat with her arms extended in a crucifiction pose. The stamina required to do this, particularly for the women opting not to use the foot rests, was mind-blowing. When the shift change happened, I watched one of them limp away from the platform. I’ve heard people describe these pieces as masochistic, but there’s a difference between inflicting pain on yourself for your own pleasure and inflicting pain on yourself to test your limits and – this might sound crazy but I really think it’s true – to assist in the world’s liberation. Great art helps us all evolve.
Describing this stuff can’t do it justice. Nor, really, can video documentation. A lot of it is about energy transmission, about taking in the performance and watching it do its work on you. Which is why, when I went back downstairs after seeing all the things she had done, I felt the power of “The Artist Is Present.” I felt that it was a refinement down to the essence of what Marina had always offered. I had to get in.
So Ethan and I got to the MOMA before it opened one Monday morning. If you have a membership card, you can line up in front of the security guards and jockey for position. There were people all around us wanting to sit with Marina.
“It’s going to be a riot of the New York elite,” Ethan joked.
But I was not laughing. I was grimly determined to sit with my new art hero. I glowered at latecomers who cut the line. Ethan and I were in an unfavorable position, trapped behind a slow-moving German couple with a map. There was a documentary film crew recording everything. It was a total zoo.
“These steps are made of very hard material,” warned the security guard. “If one person falls, everyone will fall, and it won’t be fun. When I give you the signal to proceed, walk, do not run, up the stairs to the exhibit.”
At my back and sides I felt the New York elite straining forward. Ethan kept up his stream of witty patter, which I found unhelpful. Then the security guard said we could go, and I watched with dissociated horror as the gay man in the red vinyl suit from behind me – who had not been there as early as us – shoved his way past. Aaargh! I took what felt like an agonizingly long time to get to the exhibit, and wound up in approximately 18th position.
Ethan gave me a kiss and went off to see the work on six. I sat down on the cold tile floor to wait. They let a few VIP’s sit first, so really I was 20th.
I felt optimistic. The first few people came and went quickly. First was a woman who held her hand on her heart while she sat, which annoyed me. Then came a man in a natty suit, which annoyed me. Next was a woman in a wheelchair, which annoyed me, since she would have good endurance for sitting and would probably run the clock. I saw the cute documentary film guy whom I’d met at Ethan’s Blue Note show a few weeks before.
“Hey!” I said, waving.
He came over. “Are you in it for the long haul today?”
“I think so. If I stay until it closes, I should get to see her, right?”
He eyed the line, then shrugged. “Hopefully.”
Something about the way he said this gave me a sinking feeling. I began to realize that I might not, after all, get to sit with Marina. We were three hours in at this point. Should I stay in line or should I go home?
At about this time, people began to sink in their teeth. A vaguely ghoulish old guy sat for a long time, followed by a young man who looked like he fronted a bad punk rock band, who sat for an hour. My heart began to overflow with hatred for all mankind. How could these people take so long when they knew others were waiting? There were a lot of old school New York artist types in positions ten through fourteen, and they each made an excellent showing of at least half an hour. Probably they all practiced Buddhism, the bastards.
Ethan came to check on me periodically, gushing about Marina’s art. I growled at him each time and he went away. The guy in the red vinyl welcomed a friend into line with him. She thanked him for saving her a spot, thus bumping me back by another place. The two began to make inane conversation.
Ethan came back. He showed me the photo he'd taken of me waiting in line, then told me about the delicious antipasto and red wine he'd had in the cafe. I stared at him sullenly until he went away.
My ass hurt, so I stood up for a while. The guy three places ahead of me was reading Isaac Asimov’s Foundation trilogy, which meant he had an incredible tolerance for boredom and would probably sit for at least an hour. I realized I had no chance.
Ethan came back again. He seemed scared to get within my blast radius.
“I’ll just be back over here,” he said.
“Fine.”
“Unless you want to just take off now and go get some food.”
“I’m not leaving until it’s over.”
“I think you should at least drink some water.”
“No.”
“Okay, then. I’ll just be waiting for you over here.”
I can’t remember the last time I was in such a foul mood. My only satisfaction was that the red vinyl guy was not going to get to go either. His friend had just taken her seat when the security guards made her get up. The museum was closed. I had waited about seven and a half hours.
I threw a temper tantrum as Ethan and I walked downtown through the glorious late spring afternoon. We finally stopped at East, since Ethan thought the revolving moat of sushi might be soothing. I tossed back some shochu with grapefruit juice but it only made me sad.
“I’m just so disappointed,” I said.
“I know.”
“I love her.”
“I know.”
I kept taking sushi off the moat, but none of it tasted any good.
“She makes all the other art in the MOMA seem like decorative bullshit,” Ethan remarked. “It didn’t seem like a collegial atmosphere in that line, though. That kind of shows her cruel side, doing that kind of experiment on you.”
I knew what he meant. Marina’s work is very generous, but it has its razor edge. The day had put me face to face with my lifelong difficulty with disappointment. It made me feel like a negative, toxic person and a little like a dilettante. Why did I feel like I needed to sit in that chair anyway? Would it really solve all my problems? I hadn’t even heard of Marina a week ago.
Plus we had snuck in using Leo’s membership card. Maybe Marina somehow sensed that I had not paid admission and exerted her psychic powers to keep away the cheapskate in position 20. I went to sleep that night feeling disgusted with myself and bloated from all the mayonnaise in the spicy tuna rolls.
I dreamed I was standing in front of a closed door. I remember feeling wistful that the door was closed, but at the same time reverent. I got on my knees in front of the door and bowed. I was so happy to be bowing down. I remember thinking: This is what humility feels like.
Over the next few days, I had a strong feeling of Marina’s presence sort of lurking around our apartment. It slowly dawned on me that I had to go back. I really didn’t want to, but I couldn’t just admit defeat. I told Ethan on Wednesday night.
“Yes!” he cried. “That’s awesome. You have to go. Go tomorrow.”
I sighed. I had sort of been hoping he would talk me out of it.
“You’re so tough,” he went on, “Set the alarm, and do what you wanted to do on Monday and walk there.”
On Monday it had rained, so my romantic idea of making a pilgrimage on foot to the MOMA had been foiled. I set our alarm for 6:30 AM, and when it woke me up, the skies were clear and there was a beautiful pink dawn.
I put on my old comfy shoes and started walking. Google maps said it would take two hours and eight minutes to get from Park Slope to MOMA, but it took a tiny bit longer because I stopped at Dean and Deluca for an oatmeal scone and at Ann Taylor to buy new shoes after my old ones broke. I took the Manhattan Bridge, which is noisier and not as scenic as the Brooklyn but is more direct. I also like the feeling of walking with trains.
I got to the museum well before it opened. As soon as I could, I stood in line right in front of the security guard. This time I was about seventh, behind some girls who had been there twenty times, a serious looking young guy I’d seen waiting outside since very early, a woman who worked at the MOMA, and a group of three cute gay art professors who offered me an organic pop tart.
“Listen,” I told the gay professors, “I came on Monday and waited seven hours without getting to sit. Can I count on you to be aggressive and not let anyone cut?”
They assured me they would move quickly and with purpose. Behind me was a wraithlike Asian teen in huge sunglasses and an elfin shift. She was clearly a bit of a loose cannon, but ornamental. The security guard let us past the first gate. True to their word, the gay professors marched aggressively to the stairway, fending off interlopers as if they were female grad students.
The whole thing was a bit more organized than it had been on Monday. I was still like seventh or something. The documentary crew was interviewing the girl in front of us who had already been to sit with Marina twenty times. She said she was trying to sit once for every year of her life.
The guard gave the same speech about walking and not running up the steps, and then he let us in. I followed everybody up. They let a guy in a wheelchair go first and somehow a few people cut in line, so I wound up tenth from the front. I was feeling good about my chances, but mellow in general about outcomes. I sat down on the cold tile floor, determined to enjoy the vibe, come what may.
The wraithlike Asian teen was spending a semester abroad in Italy and had a cute purse she’d bought in the outdoor market. She told me at various times that she was a performance artist/ fashion historian/ Parsons student. She wanted to sort of defeat Marina in single combat, which was kind of like a veal cutlet wanting to defeat a bull. She said was planning to sit for four hours and that she wanted to talk when she got up there.
“Um, I don’t think you’re allowed to talk.”
“They never said you couldn’t.”
“I think that sign up there says you can’t. Plus the guards give you instructions before you sit, and I think the instructions are that you can’t.”
She went up and read the sign, then reported back. “It says, ‘Visitors are invited to sit silently.’ Invited is a pretty loose word.”
I smiled. “Well, good luck. I look forward to seeing how it goes!”
Thank God she was behind me.
I talked to the serious young man in front of me, who had round glasses and a precise goatee and reminded me of the newspaper editor in The Wire. He refrained from offering any strong opinions, beyond agreeing with me that Grand Central Station was the most beautiful building in New York City. He had done performance art himself. Once he had filled a gallery with balloons, to the height of five feet.
“What color balloons?”
“Clear.”
Just then, Lady Gaga showed up. She was with the curator of the MOMA and a guy named Terrence Koh who the people in line told me was a famous performance artist himself. Gaga was wearing crazy, foot-high shoes and a leather Zoro mask with gold spikes. Her face was wan and unremarkable.
“Cantilevered shoes are so derivative,” said the Parsons student.
“I hate her music,” said the serious young man.
I admitted to kind of liking it, especially the video for Bad Romance, which makes me want to write violent Japanese porn.
“Those people she’s hanging out with really remind me of my friends,” said the Parsons student, who also hadn’t heard of Terrence Koh.
Gaga moved on, her entourage in tow. There was much tweeting on handheld devices as she passed.
When the Parsons student got up to go talk on her cell phone, the girl behind her asked me, “Do you think I’ll get to go? Is that girl going to sit for a really long time?”
“She said she’s a performance artist, and that she might sit for four hours.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.”
“I think it’s so obnoxious to sit for a long time so that other people don’t get the chance. Especially when it’s late in the day.”
“Well, don’t worry about me,” I told her. “I won’t sit long. I think twenty minutes, tops.” That seemed like the perfect amount of time to me. “Then again, I guess you can’t tell what you’ll do until you’re up there.”
I realized it was really going to happen. My stomach started to flutter. The serious young man went up and took his seat. I was next! I went around to look at him from the other side, so I could see his face. He looked like he was studying a problem of great complexity. I was happy for him. I hoped he was getting what he wanted.
Suddenly I had to pee, but I wasn’t about to leave now. Marina never gets up to pee. The general consensus is that she wears a catheter under her gown.
After a fairly short sit, the young man rose, looking flushed.
“Hmm, I thought he’d last longer,” remarked the security guard.
“Yeah,” I said, “me, too.”
Now came a very sweet moment. The security guard stood shoulder to shoulder with me and quietly gave me instructions. It reminded me of the talk your boxing trainer gives you before you get in the ring. But it had a very respectful tone. It made me feel like I was indeed becoming part of the art, being handled with care.
“We always give her a moment here to stretch her neck and relax her eyes,” he explained. “It’s the only time she gets all day to rest. When I give you the signal, you’ll go to the chair, sit silently and make eye contact.”
“Is it okay if I sit Indian-style?” I asked. “Like, with my legs crossed in the seat?”
The chair looked too tall for me; I didn’t think my feet would make good contact with the ground.
“Sure. Just try not to move. If you do have to move, do it slowly, while maintaining eye contact. Once you break the eye contact, she’ll think you’re done, and she’ll close her eyes.”
“Okay.”
“Alright.” He gestured toward the center of the atrium. “Welcome.”
I began to walk across the floor. As soon as I entered the lighted square, I felt the force of the public’s attention. My heart was pounding. I sat down cross-legged in the chair, which was very comfortable, and put my hands in my lap. Marina opened her eyes.
They were not brown as I had expected but hazel, like Ethan’s. I’d observed in the past that sometimes Marina leaned forward toward the visitor, as if she really liked them, and sometimes she almost braced herself, as if she wanted to get away. She did neither with me. I’d also often thought her gaze seemed deeply interested or compassionate. But from this close it was different. The gaze was impassive. I didn’t feel she liked me or disliked me. She was just there. It was quite imposing.
Webcam capture, courtesy of Dimitri Chrysanthopoulos
Writing about it now, it makes me think of what Kant said about the difference between the beautiful and the sublime. The beautiful is pleasant and comfortable and it seems to reinforce your sense of self. The sublime is like looking at a mountain. The mountain doesn’t care about you. It is majestic but also a bit annihilating.
All around us, the world was buzzing and spinning. It was like one of those time-lapse photos where car headlights make long lines in city streets.
It has always been hard for me to make good eye contact. It often feels embarrassing and, if prolonged, aggressive. That was one of the reasons I wanted to sit with Marina in the first place, really. I’d felt it might make me more comfortable in my skin.
I could see her moving her feet beneath the hem of her robe. She was really moving a lot, as though she had pins and needles. Although maybe she was just peeing.
David Smoler from the documentary film crew was kind enough to send this photo
I thought of how tired she must be, sitting there for so long. I thought of all the things she had done, all the incredible risks she had taken. Then I started to thank her, silently. I thanked her for her generosity, and I told her I hoped that she knew how much her art had meant to the world. I told her I hoped she found peace. I wished her love. Then I asked her to make me as brave as she was and to help me finish my novel.
I kept searching for some message in her eyes, some indication that she saw me, that she got me. But there was none. Her eyes were almond-shaped and very beautiful and a tiny bit tired.
I wondered how long I’d been sitting there. I thought, probably it’s long enough. Probably I should let someone else sit now. I felt a cold breeze blow up my shirt, and I began to worry that my boobs were showing. I could totally feel the air on my boobs. I had a strong desire to look down and see if they were okay, but that would involve breaking eye contact. Over Marina’s shoulder, her assistant was taking a picture of me with his big fancy camera.
It felt great to be there in that chair with her, in that glowing square of light, together.
Then it came to me very clearly: Look at us, Marina. We made it! Of all the possible lives, we have this one: in New York, in this rarified place, with all these witnesses. Good for us, you and me.
Then I went back to my boobs. I’d never had a boob-related incident with this shirt before, but what if it chose this moment to gape? A movement in the upper right quadrant grabbed my attention and I glanced up for a second, breaking the eye contact. I felt a sharp sense of loss immediately, and I wanted to go back to her eyes, but I remembered what the security guard said. I bowed my head.
When I got out of the chair I sort of floated back to the line, vibrating with joy. I had no idea how long I’d sat. The Parsons girl was waiting, and she gave me a big hug. She was now barefoot, and had somehow removed a layer of clothing so that her bra showed through the transparent shift. I stood at the side to watch what she would do.
She seemed to have accepted the ban on speech but still wanted to make her statement, because she started to do a slow dance across the space. Assistants and guards conferred worriedly from the perimeter. They went in and stopped her. There was a sharp, whispered conversation, after which they withdrew, leaving her alone.
Again she began to move toward Marina’s chair with strange martial artsy forward and backward movements. The guards rushed her again and it seemed for a moment like they were kicking her out, but then I guess she said, “Okay, fine, I’ll just sit,” and they escorted her to the empty chair. Marina had kept her eyes shut throughout this melee.
The girl sat in the chair Indian-style, with beautiful upright posture, and she was still sitting there when I left the museum. I see from perusing the Flickr pool that she sat for just under two hours, which means that the girl after her got a chance to sit after all. This girl sat for almost an hour, despite her protests about the selfishness of such things, leaving only eleven minutes for the rest of the people in line. I’d sat for twenty minutes exactly. I was shocked it was so long. It had seemed like five or ten.
Before I left the MOMA, I went up to the sixth floor and wandered through the art one more time. This time around, there were two naked men in “Imponderabilia,” in which the visitor is invited to pass through a doorway formed by two performers. They stand so close to each other that you need to go through sideways, facing one or the other performer.
All the naked people had been women when I’d seen them before. As Ethan had promised from his visit, the naked men were well-endowed and appeared partially tumescent. I sidled between them, facing the taller one with the café au lait skin, and careful not to tread on any feet. As I pulled my purse through behind me, the side of my hand – accidentally, I swear – brushed against both penises at once!
It was the most fun I’ve ever had with art.
