Blank Stair

I graduated with a BFA in Fine Art, though I always like to say it was like having a PHD in food service. Though I had worked hard and graduated college a semester early, ready to take the art world by storm, seeing as we were in the midst of a recession, I would be lucky to take the art world by a light tickling wind. My ultimate dream was to become one of those charismatic, high power curators that can somehow wear a white button down and black slacks and look like they are going to the Met Gala and not a catering gig.

         So it seemed all too perfect when the head curator of the contemporary art museum in town suggested I be a part of a performance piece in an upcoming show with a number of big name artists. This was it: this was my in. I had finally been given my breakout moment. I already imagined years later, laughing over champagne as the anecdote was shared during the dedication of the newly named Rebecca Henderson Wing of the Museum of Modern Art. Yes, I was being hazed before being brought into the underground realm of curatorial celebrity. But I was on my way.

         It wasn't until our pre-performance meeting I realized I might have bitten off a little bit more than I could chew. The assortment of women drafted upheld the classic themes of “diversity”: race diversity, age diversity, and body diversity. And guess who got the starring role as the fat one. The artist personally thanked me for my participation, reminding me that my unique representation was so important. I don’t know if anyone else here has ever been a woman in a corporal form before but I’ve never been….thanked? For being fat before? Which I didn't mind, because I am amateur fat all the time, and at least now I get to go pro. 

         So let me describe to you the piece as you, a visitor to the gallery, would view it. You walk into the gallery, and upon turning a corner see five women standing from the side inlaid into the wall you just passed. It's like they are standing in a line, but with walls jetting out between them, front and back. They are all wearing matching outfits, unmoving and unspeaking. You take it in, ponder it, hm. You move on. 

         Let me tell you about the piece as I viewed it. Wall, right here, for four hours at a time, 2-3 times a week for 2 months. The piece is what is called an “endurance performance” in the art world. The nook I stood in was almost perfectly sized like a coffin except with a lot of head room. They were just deep enough that, though one side was open, nothing was visible outside of your periphery when looking straight forward. You can’t see if anyone is ever even there. So really, most of the time, it was only me against my own commitment to being the best damn wall starer these people had ever fucking seen. So that is what I did, I stood in perfect profile, which is not my favorite perspective of myself and stared straight ahead in silence. For hours. Have I mentioned the wall was an eye blistering hot pink?

         So from the start all that I had was my interior monologue. The first week I set myself to the task of pondering questions that I expected would pop up later in a very celebrated dissertation. What is an object? What is art? What does it mean to perform? So that burned through the first 20 minutes of my inaugural shift. I tried to think about the piece and what it meant but if I am being totally honest I spent most of the time trying to remember Disney lyrics. The third stanza of “Be Our Guest” from Beauty and the Beast got me through a really tough day. That part where Lumiere sings “Beef ragu, cheese souffle, something something au flambe, we'll prepare and serve with flare a culinary cabaret.” I tried to remember the something something for what felt like decades. By the way, just in case you end up in a wall for hours, it's pie and pudding.

         As much as Greensboro North Carolina is world re-known as a cultural art capital, shockingly there were very few patrons who attended. However, there is some hope for a Greensboro Binnale yet, as the show wasn’t completely unattended. I will never forget one guy who walked so quietly I almost jumped out of my skin when, right next to me he said “Huh! People is art!” However most of the time, this show begged the question: if a performance piece happens and there is no one there to see it, does it still not make any sense? But I didn't care: I felt like somehow, some way, the powers that be would see my devotion and I would be rewarded. 

      This faith came a bit into question after the first girl passed out. Unable to tell that her eyes were sliding out of focus, and after standing with her knees locked for a couple of hours, she just fainted. The gallery attendant rushed over to revive her: and I had no idea what to do. Ironically this was one of the rare moments there was actually someone in the gallery: and I'm pretty sure this person was under the impression that this whole scene was in fact part of the performance. People is art! Right? Within minutes I could hear the EMT arrive, so at this point I am in a very strange position. On one hand, something bad had just happened, and I should try and help however I can. On the other hand: because of the way the space was built I couldn't tell if any of the other girls had moved. I am embarrassed to say I just didn't want to be the first one to crack. Eventually we were all escorted back to a private room and dismissed for the day. The fainted girl chose to leave the performance, meaning her spots on the schedule needed to be filled: and guess which unflinching rockstar picked up shifts? This gal right here.

         By the next time a girl fainted, however, I was genuinely becoming paranoid that this was the piece. The five of us, just complicit in our own imprisonment because it was “art”. The curator in my mind had become some kind of cruel mash-up of God and the Stanford Prison Experiment to me. Why would you do this? Is this what you wanted? I was staring into a hot pink abyss. I was only in solitary for 4 hours a couple of times a week and I was losing it. I felt alone, but also like someone was watching me all the time and somehow, look at me, I just wasn't being good enough. I had a newfound respect for Catholics.           

        That was about 13 years ago and I still to this day have no idea what that piece was about. The weirdest part is there is a photo of the performance that tours around art fairs and galleries. In fact, for awhile it was on a billboard in Brooklyn. So I get sent messages with my friends who were actually in the art world up next to an enormous billboard or a poster at Pratt, pointing going: is this you? Yes it is, people is art. So why did I do it? I guess for me it was about showing myself I could stand tall, eyes straight ahead, and feet firmly on the ground for as long as I needed to. And that maybe I could make it BIG, B-I-G, but just in my own way.