I had the afternoon free, and planned on seeing the Abramovic show and then checking out the William Kentridge AND the Henri Cartier-Bresson, all stuff I really wanted to see. But I found, after viewing all of the pieces in the Abramovic show, and simply just feeling that she was downstairs, that I just was emotionally exhausted and could not, would not, look at another piece of art. I was distracted and unfocused. I felt like I had endured walking, crucifixion, screaming, dancing, pointing, staring, being tied together, nudity, holding a mirror, holding a bowl of milk, running into columns, breathing each other's air, laying on ice, washing bones, nudity, self-mortification, whipping, smashing into each other, slapping, driving in circles, and a breakup.
I did walk through the 2 nude people in the doorway (making sure to face the guy, since you had mentioned that most people face the woman). I thought after doing it that it's more sensible to face the shorter person so you have more face space, maybe that's why people face the woman?) I watched the changing of the guard of the crucified woman, and I laid down on the "Green Dragon", a bed made of copper with a green quartz "pillow" and tried to get my energy to align (note: the back of my head still hurts from that ersatz pillow, and I'm not sure if I achieved any enlightenment or inspiration).
Photo from opednews.com
The only other time I've ever felt like this as a result of an art exhibit was at the Bruce Nauman show at MoMA in 1995. It was filled with solitary squares for sitting in loneliness, a video of a clown laughing and crying, ropes tied like defiant arms, a video of someone slapping themselves (or was it 2 people slapping each other? I can't remember), a violin that played the notes D-E-A-D over and over (and could be heard throughout the exhibition over the sound of the crying/laughing clown and the slapping), and overall, the sound of metal taxidermied animal forms that were tied by their necks from a spinning frame that dragged on the floor. I think I walked all the way home from that show and cried on my couch. At the time I thought it was just me.
But the artist being present (and downstairs) and looking so tired and enduring, made this show more disturbing and more powerful. But I found that I didn't want to participate in the staring contest...I didn't want to be a part of the show at all, not even to take photographs (which people were doing like crazy). All in all...??? more pondering is in order. Surprisingly, I didn't dream about any of it that night.
Maybe, overall, I felt like I had endured something.
On a related note, I love this post by Paddy Johnson on Art Fag City (a great art blog/column) that references a 2004 article by Robert Schorr discussing how only good looking artists get naked (except for Vito Acconci!). Agreed. I think I had this thought sometime last year when I saw a Carolee Schneeman show in Chelsea...glad to be validated.
