Screenshot from the Museum of Modern Art’s live video feed of Marina Abramović’s endurance performance in the atrium, “The Artist is Present” (Color-coordinated with her visitor, Abramović is on the right.)
As an arts writer who (almost) always obeys the rules, I confronted a reportorial quandary at the recently concluded Tino Sehgal performance pieces at the Guggenheim and the recently commenced Marina Abramović gig at the Museum of Modern Art.
I really wanted to bring back some photos for you, art-lings. But that would have been against the rules at both exhibitions. Nevertheless, lots of civilians all around me were openly wielding weapons of mass documentation, especially at MoMA, where, during most of the time that I was watching, the guards made no effort to discourage digital incursions.
Not wanting to suffer a retaliatory blow from the museums’ press officers (and not wishing to violate the edicts of the artists), I held my Canon-fire. No such scruples restrained the NY Times, which published (along with Holland Cotter‘s review) an uncredited iPhone photo of Sehgal’s “The Kiss,” performed in the Guggenheim’s rotunda. The Gugg guards did a good job of disarming photographers in the lobby, but they could hardly be expected to catch all the snipers taking shots from the ramps above.
Yesterday I discovered that MoMA itself is not only posting its own live video feed of Abramović’s performance (accessible at the link atop this post, directly under the photo). On its own Twitter page, the museum has posted a link to a blurry (and, presumably, illicit) photo of Marina-and-visitor that first appeared on the Museum Nerd website.
Now I feel like a chump for being compliantly law-abiding.
Museum Nerd said (on Mar. 14) that the tablemate of Abramović who is pictured in the posted snapshot “was inspired to sit facing her for seven hours.” I think if you’re that dedicated, you really should mirror Marina by wearing this:
Royal blue Snuggy
Since I’m only a little younger than the artist, I think I’d also bring along a nice foam backrest like hers and maybe a cushion like hers to improve upon the hard wooden seat. I’m not sure whether those props are allowed, but I did see one young woman bring a sketchpad, draw a portrait of the artist while sitting opposite her, turn the finished product towards its subject (eliciting no response) and then take her leave.
As you probably know, Marina is ostensibly “present,” but outwardly impassive. As she sits facing you, motionless and expressionless, you’re supposed to feel the force-field of her trance-like intensity. After each visitor departs, she curls inward, closes her eyes, and then gradually uncurls her body and unfurls her lids to receive her next acolyte.
I’m a native New Yorker. I’ve had enough waiting in line to last a lifetime, and I’m not about to wait seven hours (or even one) for Marina (maybe for George Clooney). The time of parting is left completely up to each visitor, until the minute when the museum closes. (As far as I’ve been able to determine from conversations with the guards, the artist takes no bathroom breaks.) I fear that MoMA may have encouraged copycat squatters by outing the seven-hour sitter on Twitter.
For me, a professional outside observer, a lot of the fun of these performances is standing apart and watching the actions and reactions of the non-professional participants. Had I cocked my camera, I would have shown you not only the ingratiating sketch artist, but also:
—a charmingly smiley young lady, who used her entire time in the center of the atrium to engage the artist in a one-sided conversation, after which she bowed, Japanese-style, while rising to leave
—a young man who sat silently but contentedly, departing after a short stay with a sweet “Thank you!”
—a serious young man who looked like he was determined to beat Marina at her own game, sitting absolutely motionless and expressionless and reminding me of those staring games we used to play as kids, in which we’d compete to see who would break down by moving or giggling first.
After I stared in fascination for a long time at the last encounter’s trance-dance, the first person to lose concentration was me: I left the atrium to revisit MoMA’s William Kentridge show (where I ran into ARTnews editor/publisher Milton Esterow and Artworld Salon blogger András Szántó).
A couple of weeks before, at the Guggenheim (where no queuing was necessary), I overcame my born-and-bred New Yorker’s reluctance to respond to strangers and warily ascended the ramp under the guidance and somewhat clueless questioning of Tino Seghal’s emissaries. The experience was largely vexing but ultimately rewarding. I’ll have more on that later, as well as a report on the images I would have captured for you photographically in that art-deprived rotunda. I’ll have to paint them with words instead.
But first, I must prepare myself for my own endurance performance—several hours sitting across from my very good friend tomorrow in Memorial Sloan-Kettering’s “chemo suite.” I’ll be in the visitor’s chair—one of a succession of friends attending her 16-week exhibition of stoicism and courage.
I’ve learned from accompanying her to several doctors’ visits that every variety of cancer has its own color-coded bracelet:
