About two weeks ago, my friend Laura and I were standing in the Lang courtyard, sharing a cigarette and catching up on what we’ve been up to since arriving here. Laura and I went to high school together and have long followed each other’s interests and achievements. When she began regaling me with a story about a recent museum trip, urging me to go, my interest piqued—Laura told me about a woman whose performance art pieces focused on everything from public spaces and contact zones to mortality to personal history to the art world. Laura said she was one of the frontrunners in this unique world. Last week I decided to head uptown after class and see for myself.
I have never liked the MoMA. It is entirely too expensive (yes, I get in for free, but I think it’s somewhat tragic that a person off the street has to pay $20 to view these works of art) and it is filled with Upper East Siders who float around absently and condescend when interacted with. I love seeing the works of art—and there is something to be said for that—but often I feel like I am at the zoo, looking at these beautiful, wild creatures that have been trapped in a quiet room with white walls and “Do Not Touch,” defended by menacing guards. I braved these somewhat annoying conditions and located Marina’s exhibit.
On the second floor of the MoMA, THE ARTIST IS PRESENT greeted me in huge block letters. The room (if you could call it that, it was so large) at the top of the stairs was sparse, barren, but for bright white lights that shone down into the center—a table and chairs. On one side, sat a woman in robes (perhaps it was Marina? A lot of her works were being re-performed, so I am not certain if it was Marina or another artist—but it did look like her) and on the other side of the table, immediately facing her, sat anyone. The point of the performance was to invite anyone who wished to join her at the table for the duration of their choosing, in silence. Two women sat with their arms folded, looking into each other’s eyes. The woman in robes was still, completely solemn—not stern, but somber. She seemed relaxed, but disciplined. The other woman seemed thrilled, but slightly nervous—she blinked often and I caught her fidgeting a bit. It was so refreshing though. This did not feel at all like the ogling at artworks I had come to dislike. This was participatory, open—an invitation.
I made my way to the sixth floor, where things were slightly more abnormal than on the second floor. The first room I walked into was dark, but for a bright spotlight shining on the wall. A naked woman was on display within the circle of white light, arms and legs extended outwards. She was high up, about ten feet, and she looked directly ahead, completely stoic. I was at once struck by the power of the image and the experience, and I was amazed at this woman’s courage and discipline. I imagine it takes a lot of courage to strip down naked and hang herself up at the museum like a work of art, and a great deal of discipline to remain there all day. As I progressed through the exhibit, there were more pieces like this, and some that were very different. In one narrow doorway, a nude man and a nude woman stood facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, completely expressionless. There was a narrow window of space between their bodies and the artist encouraged viewers to try to walk through the doorway, to pass through the naked bodies. It was such an interesting approach to contact zones and comfort. Another naked man lay stretched out on a table, a skeleton draped over his body to match it precisely. As he took each breath, the skeleton breathed also; their chests rose and fell together in perfect alignment. It was an approach to mortality that was based in the practicing of Tibetan monks. Often, these monks meditate on the beauty and power of life while in the company of death. In breathing with this skeleton, I think Abramovic accomplished something similar.
Other parts of her exhibit were more autobiographical. On the walls in one room were many stories written in very vernacular prose. They were about Marina’s upbringing, mostly, and also of her family history and experiences. Stories such as “The Story of My Big Nose,” and “The Story of My Father and His Sister” portrayed a tumultuous upbringing for Marina; at once they were darkly funny and also heart wrenching. I really liked that these pieces were there. They were very different from her performance art, but I feel like they helped me to get to know the artist better, and I think that rarely happens in the museum forum.
I was most impressed by her performances “The House with an Ocean View” and “Rhythm 4D.” “The House with an Ocean View” was a twelve-day detox that Marina did in a gallery. She lived in three compartments, existing only on purified water. She showered three times a day and spent most of her time in meditations. Her objective in the performance was to attempt to achieve purity through self-discipline. The ladders she used to climb into her compartments were made out of knives to ensure she could not get down and leave until the performance was through. That kind of piece takes such an incredible amount of commitment and conviction. It was inspiring. “Rhythm 4D” was a piece Marina did where she lay 72 objects out on a table, everything from a gun to a piece of cake and stood herself in the room, declaring “My body is the object. I take full responsibility.” She also said that she did not wish to die, but she wished to take this as far to the edge as she could. Looking at photographs, and seeing those same objects on the table, was very powerful. I am awestruck by the fact that she stood herself in front of a room of strangers and as both an artist and as a human, completely relinquished control. So often, art is a spectator sport, but this was so participatory it felt revolutionary. Oddly, this surrendering of control seemed empowering.
Sometimes with poetry (and a lot of art) I become frustrated because there is a power imbalance in the relationship between the creator and the audience. I feel like Marina’s pieces completely abolish whatever power relations are occurring and bring everyone together to make a kind of collective artwork happen. Certainly some of her pieces have a more rigid audience/artist division, but I feel like wholly her pieces encourage people to think and take it to heart. Needless to say, this was the kind of experience I needed to feel better about the MoMA. I was inspired by the Abramovic exhibit; it was refreshing and almost rejuvenating.
