i as the object
Last year, I saw one of those “I am the object do with me what you will” performance art pieces staged in some known but lesser gallery I used to haunt when I felt too pauvre gauche to go admire paintings elsewhere.
I wore a tan raincoat, because it was April and there was rain that day.
Another naked woman, silent, a cross between Louise Bow and Frida Kahlo, sat beside a table full of weapons. Ropily, voluptuously exposed. Light rolled over her clavicles. Light rolled over the pipe fittings.
3 hours. No resistance. Choose your fighter. Camera. Makeup. Necklace. Handcuff. Baseball bat. Knife. Nail. I as the object will not protest. I as the object will not condemn. I as the object will not react. Let us explore human ethics, read her statement.
Men and fans of men idled, stalled, sniffed. Circled. Her rocky spine sweated. The civil curl at the her nape frizzled with invisible steam. Blue white red pink orange black pinwheel paint streak poppy. The violence of the brush splat and the boldness of the color substitute for recognizable form. I get it. Modern art.
So I put my arms around her. With my body blocking hers. My raincoat swirled. The thin tan line between voyeurism and violence. Men and friends of men jeered, but didn’t breach me. I wasn’t art.
At the end of the third hour, a timer on the table rang. We both shook, parting. The artist’s face a confused wet smear. I gave it shape with my own hands. “Take better care of yourself,” I pleaded. She frowned right through me. I left.
The artist went home and shot herself in the face. On a livestream. She survived. She became a multimillionaire.
Yesterday, I was arrested.