Sitting with the Artist
May 27th, 2010 at 11:40 am
This past Saturday my friend Anthony and I went to see Marina Abramović’s exhibit, The Artist is Present, at the MoMA. I had read about it, but really had little information on what to expect. I recommend you visit the exhibit site or read this op-ed first for some basic background. What follows is my review in four parts:
- Logistics and tips for visiting
- Review of the work as an observer
- Experience of participating
- Aftermath
Logistics and tips for visiting
What they don’t tell you anywhere, but if you’re a mathematician you can infer, is that you have to get there early. You might dream of visiting the museum in the afternoon and just walking into her sacred square. Not so! At an average of 20 minutes per visit, only 24 people would get to see her each day. If you get some long-staying devotees, it’s far fewer. This means you have to be first in line. You have to be a member or get advance tickets, get there when doors to the museum lobby open (9:30?), and despite the insistence of the guards (sorry, guards), push your way to the top of the exhibit stairs when it’s go time at about 10:30. If you’re sitting at the end of the L-shaped line after that you probably won’t get in that day. You have to really want it.
Review of the work as an observer
The setup of the performance is both tender and sterile. It is intensely personal in nature – two people sitting relatively close maintaining eye contact. It’s a type of personal that we rarely get these days from anyone but close friends or lovers – never artists or idols. The lack of a time limit in which to complete the performance, or “task” is also a rarity in our fast-paced, action-packed, web 2.0 lives. Every moment must traditionally be filled with something – rushing around between trains and checking our iPhones for updates on multiple media platforms. Those unusual parameters of the work make for a tenderness we’re not used to. But several things take it out of that intimate space as well. By the nature of it being a performance and being in a museum the work is observed. Having others watch the work is a distraction to that intimacy. Being there it doesn’t feel voyeuristic at all, but instead sort of like the masses outside the square are more crude next to the sacred space within. And crude they are – taking photos when that is forbidden, checking their phones, chatting loudly. We even observed people try to run into the square at random and one girl ignore the exhibit altogether in favor of reading a book. The sleek, modern architecture of MoMA’s atrium, the heavy-duty lighting rigs in each corner of the square (cold light, too), the cameras mounted on the walls, and Marco Anelli’s telephoto lens all lend a starkness to the scene. There’s something very cold and sterile about exposing the technological and architectural setting of the piece so blatantly. How different would it have been if Abramović sat in a small, cushy room with hidden cameras and a plush couch to greet her visitors!
Having the technology so visible brought into focus other questions. What would she do with these hours of video (if it was even archived, or just web-streamed)? And what of those portraits, one for each visitor? Even the way the visitors are referred to on that site – by the time they stayed for, the day, and their order on that day – begs some sort of statistical analysis or meta-project to be undertaken. It really makes me wonder what her view on the technology is. Is it a sharing mechanism to her? How would she feel about visitors tweeting and Facebooking that they were at the performance or reviewing their time with her as I am? It seems like there must be more going on in her intent than pure publicity or going hi-tech because that’s what artists do these days. She does talk about archiving performance art – that pictures or video don’t do it justice but more the accounts of the people that were there, and also the concept of re-performance. Still, it seems that the technology must mean something.
Another intention question I have revolves around the experiences surrounding getting to sit with her. Because there would be mass chaos otherwise, there is this system of a line with a museum guard as gatekeeper of the space. The line is an interesting thing because for the visitor (and co-performer when inside the square), the line is part of the total experience. (More on this in a personal light in the next section.) In practice, it calls up references to our other experiences of waiting – for a flight, in line for a concert, even amusement park lines. Camaraderie forms when spots are held for strangers’ restroom breaks. Boredom, time-passing activities like reading or smart-phone playing, position-shifting, and watch-checking all happen. But does something connect this experience with that of sitting in the chair? If Abramović had her way, would the line exist, or would it be a lazy afternoon wander into the square by anyone interested in no particular order? As for the museum guard, he gets to direct the traffic in and out of the space and convey the artist’s directions to the next visitor. What role does that give him in the performance? I would argue, some! How is it so different for people to hear the instructions spoken rather than read information about a work on a placard next to a painting? Because the guard is outside the square, is he somehow part of the world of the masses instead of her quiet world within, and then perhaps his mannerism, dress, and wording do not need to be considered as much as I think?
Finally, I’d like to discuss some associations we can make to the work. The easy comparison to make is a staring contest. Several people around me referred to this, and I think some participants engaged the concept – seeing for themselves how long they could sit and “challenge” Abramović. My friend who works at MoMA said herself, “Marina always wins.”
The fact that her body is the art, and perhaps somewhat her dress – timeless, long, white, flowing, angelic? calls up images of classical paintings. The eternal fascination of the female figure in art is both contributed to and re-imagined by Abramović.
As a dancer, I also interpret the work in that light. Many years of being in the contemporary/postmodern dance world taught me that anything can be performance, that a body moving is always, in a way, “dance.” I found the moments where Abramović rests between visitors to speak particularly to that. She bows her head and closes her eyes. If the person before has stayed for a long time she hoists herself up with her hands and then to a squat in front of her chair. She often wraps her arms over her head, and sometimes touches her still-bowed face or brushes her hair aside before seeing the next person. Those subtle movements reinforce the ritual nature of the piece. I think the artist was very mindful and specifically chose these actions to rest, and they are effective for the audience (though I’m unsure if they’re optimal for her body). It would be much more jarring to the viewer, for example, if she lept out of her chair and cracked her back each time! I know that she must rest and move for her own sake, but I think it really works as part of the performance as well. We see her hardship a bit in this moment of respite.
Experience of participating
Some of my experience came about by accident. We got there very early, so I didn’t get enough rest the night before (and I’m no morning person!) Also, I hadn’t eaten breakfast for timing reasons and had transportation drama getting to the museum. Needless to say I was a bit spaced out and not in peak physical condition when I got there. I wasn’t talking much and was very focused on just getting a place in line. As the day wore on, my quiet and withdrawn temperament transformed from being a factor of my tiredness and stressed-ness to being actually part of the experience. It’s hard to explain, but after viewing the performance for a while and realizing you’re going to be in that room for hours, it just doesn’t seem right to bust out the phone games or leave the line to get McDonald’s. It’s as if that would take away from the event, the experience, or be disrespectful to Abramović. After all, she doesn’t get to eat, drink, or use the restroom that whole time! I also didn’t feel like talking to strangers in the line. Granted, this was probably partly because I was cranky and not feeling great, but something about chatting casually felt like it would cheapen the experience. So I ignored when fellow waiters glanced over to see who was listening to their open-ended discussion. In summary, from 10:30 to about 3:30 (when Anthony finished his sit) I sat on the hard granite floor; cold; did not eat, drink, pee, or leave the atrium; and barely spoke. It was self-imposed and very difficult, but in retrospect I think enhanced my concentration and understanding of the total experience.
At times I didn’t think I could make it through the waiting. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever waited for anything longer. Near the beginning when one woman sat for an hour and a half I thought, I just can’t do it. I’ll go home and still have the day ahead of me. I really thought that would be the end of it, but I’m so glad I stuck it out.
Finally around 2:30 or so it was my turn. I was nervous, shaking slightly, maybe also out of hunger. I think the nerves were more feeling intimidated by Abramović than stage fright. The guard spoke the instructions to me in a low voice. You must make eye contact. You must be still. You cannot talk. Stay for as long as you wish. When you’re done, bow your head to thank the artist and she will know you’re finished.
So many things raced through my head – how long should I stay? Would any friends see me on the web feed? Is staying longer selfish? Is staying shorter a sign of weakness? What will feel right? How will I sit? Will I feel like crying too?
I purposely slowed my gait as I walked into the square. I sat – the chair wasn’t comfortable and neither was I. I looked in her eyes.
She was tired, I could tell. It was almost the end of the day, almost the end of the project. I tried to tell her a story with my eyes, a million thoughts raced through my head, mostly in words instead of pictures. Could she hear any of it? The background went out of focus, though things would catch my eye – a guard shifting position, a wrinkle on Abramović’s dress. It was both a struggle and a pleasure to stay focused.
Her eyes shifted between staring for the sake of staring and really seeing me. In the latter, one of the lights made a glimmer in her left eye, making it all the more enchanting. What was she really seeing? We blinked at the same time – three or four times in total. Those were uncanny moments.
Partway through I thought I saw her start to crack a smile. It was like a Mona Lisa smile, barely there, filled with silent mystery. So subtle I don’t think anyone but me could have seen. I thought I may have imagined it but Anthony later described seeing it too. I tried to make the same face back. I wanted so badly to communicate.
I found myself simultaneously wondering and trying to estimate how long it had been and telling myself not to think about it. I took some deep breaths. My time seemed cyclical, like a pulse repeating every few minutes. I waited another invisible cycle, thought about leaving, waited another, and bowed my head. It would be easier on her, I thought, to see someone else now. It turned out to be 16 minutes, I had not a clue at the time.
During and after the experience the strongest emotions I felt were sympathy and compassion for Abramović. I wanted to help her in her massive undertaking, to support her when she was worn out, and it was sad and frustrating to only be able to do so with my eyes. It was almost as if I cared not for the people in line (though we spent so many hours together) or the people viewing the piece, but I wanted my decisions to be only what was best for the artist and what she wanted. Needless to say, making faces while in the square (a thought that initially occurred to me) had been ruled out.
Aftermath
I found that Anthony and I had very similar ways of describing the experience, though we were almost too worn out to talk about it over burritos afterward. The whole thing has been on my mind in the days since – I find myself refreshing the web feed periodically to see who is sitting. Seeing myself in the Flickr gallery the subsequent Tuesday was very surreal. People I would have never thought ask about how my visit was.
I will return to the museum tomorrow, not to sit but to witness this and Abramović’s other works. It may be strange. In any case, I think this experience will be with me for a long time. I have a sense that I was part of something very unique.
Marina, if you ever see this, thank you.
Tags: art, nyc
Word count: 2,312
Beautiful! Thank you for sharing your experience with us!
Thank you for taking the time to think about the whole experience and to share it.
You are a very good writer.
Publishing your observations makes you even more a part of the artwork.
I imagine it’s always true but the bare simplicity of the event makes everything around it more visible.