more nights with weird art people

it's easy to fall out of touch with a world--you need only to allow yourself to hang out by cliffside and fall away--half-accident, half-voluntary, with a hint of relief that you are no longer committed to it. the fall-out sheds friendships as well as responsibilities tied to all those things, like love. no pain, no stress, but no pleasure either. just null. then try to get used to the limbo, or find another world temporarily, then hang out at cliffside, repeat.

some are born drifters, some aren't. when people asked me what i wanted to be when i grew up, i told them "artist" on one day, "writer" on another. a long, toxic, ecstatic, tumultuous romance with both has created strings so numerous, vast, stubbornly clingy that they can no longer be called strings but a net, a world that never lets me free--gives me the illusion sometimes, yes, but invisible chains are perhaps the most powerful of all.

sometimes i find it's easier to deal with something by not dealing with it at all. detach the problem from the real source and tack it onto an external but also subjective one. my own pain is more tolerable when it is removed from me and visible from a distance--just like the sublime, nietzsche's tragedy, when i can contemplate it, like a tortured sculpture.

so i can hate and blame the people there--artists are full of shit, art is a bunch of bullshit, why care about writing, why care about art when… 

but when a fall-out is never a true one, when you already have bound yourself to a world--willfully or not--the fall-in, the shameful but intoxicating return is more painful than the accidental feigned escape. 

probably because love sometimes resembles pain when it takes you by surprise.

and for me, the regular returns to art come as love for people, too.

when i love the people living art, i have no choice but to fall back in love with it.

this time art is more forgiving and more generous than ever, because the people do not exist separately from it, but they are it. because every moment is their work.

through a performance art community in brooklyn, i encountered the necessary urgency of a writer, that necessary fuel to placing words on paper and to putting them out.

that drive--i had forgotten, it has been too long--in which i feel no choice but to speak and share. not an "i guess i could," but "i need to or i will go insane."

a writing classmate once described this as a feeling of "responsibility."

i think that is right too--

i sit and listen to a handful of artists tell horror stories about their performing, and throughout most of the talk, a guy next to me ceaselessly (or so it seemed) muches from his bag of tate's white chocolate chip macadamia cookies and later pulls out and drinks from a bottle of red wine he brought with him. and the play of shadows against the wall, passersby gawking and shouting through the glass windows.

or another time another handful of people (some the same ones from the other occasion) fix their attention on an electro music duo at an artist's closing party and suddenly a woman, face invisible under multiple long black wigs, clad in a fur coat and a pair of disposable underwear, bursts through the door waving a white cane. when she bounces, squats, dances to the irregular sounds and yells out to people at random intervals, "what the fuck ya lookin' at?!" the countenances of others do not express surprise.

that sort of thing.

and i'm thinking, someone's got to document this.

can an "isolated" study of that woman's persona do full justice to her as a performance artist? or others gathered there?

or to even think about whether all of them would consent to their being labeled "artist," or otherwise…

the initial elation feels higher, especially when a realist cynic is propelled into space.

all this will come down--

but i had to, 

i had no choice but to,

speak

out loud.

in defense of a legal education

if you had told me six months ago that i will be applying to law school, i would have laughed at your face. i have long held a bias against lawyers--i was raised by a liberal mother with an "unconventional" career path (at least, only few would perceive being an artist as a standard 9-5 deal), i attended liberal institutions where people often called lawyers soulless liars, and my closest blood relative (upon whom i do not look very favorably) is possibly the most famous lawyer in korea.

on top of that, i have always lived by a (perhaps childish) rebel principle. i have to do everything differently from others. my ideas have to be fresh and unique; if a lot of people wear a certain kind of color, i wear the opposite. i come from a korean household, whose culture insists that lawyers, doctors, or multi-billionaire business people are the embodiments of success. i don't agree with such a narrow definition of success. although i have toyed with the idea of med school for my dream of becoming a surgeon, i never wanted to do any of those things just because they spelled success to certain people.

i always loved reading and writing. i was that kid at dinner who was reading a different book everyday, who had to be told to put her book down because we have to eat. i wrote story after story in volumes of notebooks which i illustrated. i loved (still love) pictures and language. in high school i studied three different languages in addition to the two i knew. i went on to study art and literature in college, then wrote criticism about art while doing translations.

i found immense satisfaction in studying the way languages work, how they're used, how miscommunications occur. all this i did through writing and reading fiction, essays, criticism, theory, etc. but i often got the sense that a lot of it felt detached from the real world. it's fun, and sometimes revelatory, but so what? i come back down from the cloud and things remain the same.

then i found a new toy: law. i am ashamed to admit that i would skip over news about certain policy changes, court rulings, etc., because i thought, ultimately, the world is going to shit anyway so why should i care? but one day i realized that what lawyers do is just another way of manipulating language in order to achieve ends, sometimes with very high stakes and very direct consequences.

think about it: nothing is stable. we have things we call "facts" because they resemble states of "being" that are "generally" thought as stable enough for us to give them a name. but many of us know that regardless of what the dictionary says, what one understands by a certain word or phrase might mean something quite different from what another thinks. that's why we communicate--communication through language is the constant method by which we put "our" definitions to play with others', constantly reaffirming and/or readjusting through negotiations. these definitions come from our own experiences of understanding things in the world. and honestly, there isn't always a clear-cut right or wrong in beliefs. how else could it be? we each think with a brain located in separate physiological units.

legal language asserts a standardized system of language that (i think) is theoretically supposed to serve as the common ground by which we communicate so that we can coexist in a fairly orderly society. however, legal language is not and cannot be a democratic common ground--by a strict definition of democracy anyway. language requires interpretation, from which no legal language--no matter how seemingly straight forward--is exempt. thus, on the level of practice, the use of legal language is essentially a fight between groups of people about ontology and beliefs. a certain belief (interpretation) will be held as correct (the "definition"), depending on who holds more power among those who can speak this language.

but do the masses of people who are able to speak this language (through legal education) necessarily represent all the different kinds of ontologies? here, i am thinking about art: when policies and decisions are made about art, does the law recognize the different understandings of art? the discourses taking place? what its role is and what it should be? do the legal speakers, practitioners, advocates, decision-makers?

probably not. if some do, probably very few, because the idea of "specialized" professions gives the false illusion that certain realms are irreconcilable, when sometimes, it is just a matter of translation--moving between different languages. people shy away from these imaginary walls and try to stay within their "own boundaries." but when people shy away from legal discursive activities, they also relinquish their power of speech as well as their system of beliefs. this is all very cliche and frequently thrown around american ideals, but seriously, do many legal practitioners know that richard prince's appropriations are art, not just because of their purported monetary value?

luckily powerhouse artists like prince can afford attorneys who can win their cases, but what about others? sure, this is not just an art thing--many people can't afford lawyers--but i have a feeling that there aren't enough people who can speak and manipulate legal language in addition to being attuned to the current dialogues, developments, and beliefs in artistic practices--that is, the "definitions" of art.

my aspiration is to be a translator, a role which requires an understanding of both languages. so i have decided to learn a new language--this is my defense for pursuing a legal education.

passive suffering, phantasmatic heroes, and revolution

i am currently reading a book called the empire of light by a korean novelist named kim young-ha. as far as i know, his work has not been translated into english, but he is one of the few fiction writers besides murakami haruki whose collection of work i have read almost in their entirety. many of kim's novels and stories make surreal and fantastical departures while also grounding them in recognizable realities of fairly everyday people. 

one backdrop to which the author likes to return is the politically tumultuous south korea of the 1980s. some plots they take place immediately in the 80s--following student activists during the democracy movements--, others take place in contemporary times--following the lives of formerly passionate and young activists who now lead ordinary lives as obedient citizens. 

the empire of light weaves the stories of several characters in present-day seoul: a north korean spy, who snuck into the south in the 80s and joined a secret communist club while attending a prestigious s. korean university; his wife, a former student activist whom he met at the same club (but doesn't know he is a spy); their teenage daughter, a s. korean detective, who attempts to catch the protagonist.

for over a decade, the n. korean protagonist lives a typically normal s. korean life. he runs a small movie-import business, marries an unsuspecting s. korean woman, starts a family. he has friends from college whom he still sees. one friend also used to be an activist during her college days, but is now a teacher at the protagonist's daughter's school. one day they discuss writing fiction and the friend brings up a film starring dustin hoffman about a man who vengefully seeks out the criminals that raped his wife. the friend asks, "i wonder why we [koreans] don't have a culture of revenge?"

i thought of very uniquely "korean" untranslatable words and part of a graduate peer's thesis about "han." 

the most untranslatable words in korean are all similar in nature: 

억울하다 (uh-gool-ha-da)

분하다 (boon-ha-da)

원통하다 (wun-tong-ha-da)

한 (han)

the top three are adjectives and the last, a noun. they all basically describe the helplessly painful sense of having been wronged. it's an internal suffering caused by an external source but about which the sufferer can do absolutely nothing. it's bearing of a burden that eats away at him/her for a long time, sometimes for the rest of his/her life. japanese have a similar concept too, as seen by their female spirit stories. the movie may be called the grudge, but the feeling is less vengeful than that. it's a more resigned, victim mentality. in korean horror myths, many bearers of han are women too--forced to conform to passive and subordinate positions, they (especially the young who did not even get to live till their peak) must hold everything inside. the only way their han--and their spirits--can be released is through speech and a listener, which is not possible during their lifetime. that is why the concept of han manifests itself through horror stories about spirits in limbo. the sufferer may speak only after death--while alive, one must "bear it." this kind of mentality is very characteristically korean.

standing up for one's rights and taking action against injustice, i feel, is a very american concept. active and aggressive heroes leading the people are familiar images in historical texts and art. on the other hand, i think of yoo gwan-soon, a popularly evoked figure of the independence movement in korea. the images of a strong woman surround her myth, but i would argue that her image as a revolutionary martyr plays a significant role in the making of her legend. she suffered and died too young, and for a greater cause--the independence of her nation from the japanese empire. this combination--active leadership and heroically obstinate suffering--elevates her to a fantastical realm. especially in such a culture bound to a history of confucianism and buddhism (note things and release them, no attachments or dwelling), the revolutionary myth of yoo occupies a position so far removed from reality that the practicality of such a hero to our lived circumstances becomes unimaginable.

this, of course, applies elsewhere too. it is easier to accept our circumstances and bear/endure them, rather than take action. especially now, when the system of injustice and oppression are so complex, intricate, and elaborate and pervades every nook of our lives, where does one even begin? it is easier to surrender to a world which renders it increasingly difficult to live outside of its rules. even the internet--often perceived as a free, alternate realm of possibilities--has become systematized according to structures similar to the "tangible" world. in fact, it is no longer separable from the "real world." big corporations and other forms of power dominate the way in which we navigate space, find information, and tell us what we should like, know, do--they impose (and many of us accept) their standards of normativity and definitions of a "good citizen." 

the glorious legend of che guevara becomes reduced and flattened to mass manufactured t-shirts.

i feel as though even the heroes who emerge in our present times become legends and myths so quickly that we have no time to incorporate them into the reality of our lives; they almost immediately become divine symbols (steve jobs?).

can we have real heroes today without the fantastical glory, the otherworldly aura that remove them from practice? maybe, like walter benjamin's loss of the aura, we need superficial glorification of personalities and figures to make up for a loss of "old times." we reminisce and mourn. is there hope for action?

everyone's favorite: identity politics

view of question bridge: black males, a work in progress by hank willis thomas, chris johnson, bayeté ross smith, and kamal sinclair at jack shainman gallery.

i saw an exhibition yesterday at jack shainman gallery, of work by hank willis thomas and question bridge: black males, a collaboration with thomas, chris johnson, bayeté ross smith, and kamal sinclair. the show displayed one of the most explicit engagements with racial and "identity politics" i have seen as of late. this is probably because, well, after the multiculturalist fad of the 90s passed over, the topic is no longer "trendy." still following a 2000-year-plus tradition, the art world still believes in "universality." "good" art will appeal to "all" on a "fundamental" level. since the internet, digital realm, and ecological concerns dominate our current era (i'm thinking of the u.s. and other globally "first world" countries), those topics have become "our shared" experience. addressing the problems of a black and white dichotomy, the experience of "being a black man" (and gay), evoking w.e.b. dubois and ralph ellison's invisible man are so passé in this post-racial world. just like artists avoid the label "feminist" like the plague.

addressing racism is difficult today because it operates under the table: official laws and politically correct american culture forbids discrimination according to race, gender, sexuality, but it still happens, masked by a myriad of seemingly rational and racially (sexually, etc) irrelevant excuses. 

here is an excerpt from my thesis on the perpetuation of racist stereotypes and imagery in comedy:

This act of self-affirmation through negation has been a necessary tactic for the Eurocentric paradigm in American mass culture, a legacy that has been thoroughly demonstrated by the history of 19th Century minstrels shows, performed in both black- and yellowface. The demand for racially reductive and sub-human images of the non-normative (non-white) population displays itself more subtly in contemporary times. Acceptable instances of such demeaning laughter are now restricted, as when comedians give overtly exaggerated indications of their intention to make politically incorrect jokes. 

Margaret Cho and Bobby Lee—both popular entertainers among Asians and non-Asians alike—exaggerate “Asianness” in their acts to draw the audience’s attention to the absurdity of American racist assumptions. Cho is famous for the mimicry of her mother’s broken English; Lee plays an array of stereotypical Asian characters—whether they be Korean, Japanese, Chinese, or their confused hybrid. These grotesquely exaggerated performances give direct signals to the audience that racial stereotypes are precisely the point of their acts. The performers’ Asianness grants especially the non-Asian audiences further permission to laugh. 

Yet the source of laughter is at times ambiguous. Should non-Asian viewers doubt the appropriateness of their laughter, they need only seek laughing Asian audience members. The legitimatizing function of the Asian audience’s laughter is especially apparent in recordings of the comics’ live performances; the edited footage intersperses images of Asian audience members laughing at the racially offensive jokes. But do we not laugh at that in which we perceive a degree of truth? Does the non-Asian audience laugh at what it believes to be a truthfulness of the enacted stereotypes themselves or at false societal beliefs of perceiving them as truthful? As scholar Howard Winant has written, “Today racism must be identified by its consequences." Cho and Lee, at times, reproduce the very stereotypes they attempt to skewer.

for the purposes of my thesis on psy's "gangnam style," i focused on asian (american) entertainers, but of course, comedians like chris rock have made their careers out of racist and homosexual jokes, many of which are self-deprecatory.

and as stated above, the very existence of even the most overtly and consciously absurd racist jokes indicate the fact that these sentiments exist. our laughter is twofold. we laugh because 1. we recognize the absurdity of those jokes (ex. "hey, jackie chan!") but also because 2. we recognize a "truth" in them, whether we actually believe them ourselves or know of others who do.

cedrick smith at dillon gallery

i have a guest over from korea, hk. he is 17 years old and is exploring nyc mostly on his own while crashing at my place. he arrived last sunday. i was free and i decided to take him to central park to begin an introductory tour of the city.

the weather was unbelievably beautiful--it was the warmest welcome for someone who had just come from a country going through the most humid and sticky season of the year. but halfway through our getting lost in the park (after living in nyc for 15 years i still get lost consistently there), we encountered something i did not want to be part of hk's intro to nyc: racism.

to conceal racism from a tour of nyc is, of course, to deceive. but perhaps i was trying to do unto him what i wished others had done for me when i first arrived from korea. no one had warned me that i could be the target of hatred and mockery just because i looked a certain way to some people. although i'm not sure any warning would have helped at all, maybe it would have better prepared me for the actual experience. but i maybe i hoped, stupidly and naively, that someone had protected me from unexpected blows.

i did not want hk to have this unpleasant experience, not while i was with him. but we ended up running into a street acrobatics show--the kind that goes through a dance and tumbling routine. i had seen the same group perform in union square once. they follow a fairly lengthy script which relies heavily on racist jokes: black men freezing and ducking at the sound of police sirens, pretending to run away with the volunteers' bags, etc. besides self-deprecatory "black jokes," they also like unsophisticated asian jokes (i have also seen them crack a mexican joke, something about being poor).

the time i saw them in union square, they picked me as a volunteer, one of maybe five people over whom one performer jumps. he cracked a horrible joke at me, the kind i imagine only a 10 year old living in a suburban white town (connecticut? midwest? south?) saying to the only asian kid in school. or pre-pubescent white boys in a riverdale prep school saying to me, the only asian person "from" asia.

the joke? emitting a series of incomprehensible sounds that the speaker believes is some faithful mimicry of chinese or a generic "asian" language. when one of the performers did this to me in union square, i called him out on it and gave him a fuck you, interrupting their carefully planned routine. (i was then kicked out and replaced by a quieter asian woman). when i was with my guest at central park, i remembered this about the troupe too late. after a few minutes of watching, hk got dragged in as a volunteer because they "have to have at least one asian guy" in a mix of female volunteers. i saw links to the feminization of asian men by this gesture. maybe i was reading more into it than the guy meant, so i let this pass.

but the jokes got worse and worse. hk got called "jackie chan" and "jet li" at different times. when the main performer stacked his volunteers close together to prepare for the jump, he told hk (who was standing behind a young italian woman), "get closer, get closer. you can thank me. when else would you have a chance like this?!"

fortunately, i don't think my guest got the joke--that asian men can only "dream" of getting with a white woman because 1. asian men are undesirable 2. white women are the pinnacle of attractiveness and 3. since undesirable asian men cannot get with the extremely desirable white women, they must resort to dating the less desirable women "of their own kind."

leaving aside the fact that the "joke" is not funny at all.. i find it notable that these kinds of jokes are very american. the "joke" is only understood by americans--when tourists like hk come across racist jokes, often it takes a bit of time for them to register as "racist." the notion of race is an invention, and although racial discrimination does exist in fairly homogenous countries such as korea, american construction of race is very elaborate. the racial stereotypes, myths, "characters" are much more detailed so that they pose as widely understood "truths." 

i have also noticed that foreigners "from" abroad don't care so much about racism but the hyphenated americans (asian american, african american, latin american..) do. this is probably because foreigners find this an inevitable part of living/staying in the u.s. and well, if it becomes unbearable, they can go back to their own "homes" where they will be the racial majority. for second, third, fourth generations, the u.s. is their home. they have more at stake, and constantly being differentiated from the "norm" based on a ridiculous fiction called "race" (ambiguously tied to appearance and "origin") on one's own turf will trigger stronger reactions.

as outmoded as the shainman show seems, identity politics are still very much relevant. in fact, it may be even more now, because stereotypes are so deeply seated in our conscious/unconscious that they come off as invisible and non-existent.

i will leave you with a link to a slightly controversial and interesting blog: http://blackgirldangerous.org/new-blog/2012/11/27/how-to-know-if-you-are-white

only in nyc

august slumber

every "field" operates according to a certain kind of calendar or sense of time. in fashion, for example, they work in "seasons," related to the weather and lifestyles of consumers. the "new" is always being planned a year in advance and "fall lines" arrive in stores in the early summer, when summer clothes are already sold out or on sale. different concepts of time can be seen in products like the old-school "planner" (who uses those things nowadays anyway?). there is the regular calendar which begins with the december of the previous year then ends with the january of the following year (or december of that year, depending on the company). then there is the "academic" calendar for students that begins in august and ends in july or august of the following year. 

no longer part of an academic institution, i have been hovering in the strange limbo typical of a recent graduate grappling with the anxiety of an uncertain future and worries about "the next move." these anxieties have to do with practical matters (get a job? where? how?) and often they are fueled by the lack of a "given" time structure. i have to find my own temporal structure, which will reflect what i "want to do" with myself/my life. the difficulty lies in picking and choosing whose calendars fit what i want to do (a ginormous issue in itself) and creating a new one tailored to my own identity, vision, etc.

that was a round about way of saying that it didn't really occur to me that august in the art world is very slow--and, well, dead. i knew, of course. but having this knowledge in one's own head differs from how that knowledge is experienced on a practical and visceral level. my current sense of time is rather monotonous--no high/low seasons, but only the same kind of day after another, after another. the only factors that cause fluctuations--and require some planning--are the opening hours of galleries and museums, certain short-lived events such as performance nights and special openings.

in a way it is nice--it's like receiving a blank sheet everyday for me to mark up anew. but the real new york art world schedule, which i have tried to incorporate into my own sense of time, doesn't quite work the way i pass my days. it is not monotonous like mine, but has its seasons like any other calendar. certain months are "vacation" time (end of july to august, and december), then some months are the "big" moments when art people return to the city and there are a million openings every week (september is a major openings month). some months host a multitude of art fairs, others (in alternating years) have biennials, triennials, or annual exhibitions organized by major institutions.

it's not all that different from an academic or other work calendars, actually. but there are small elements (knowledge?) that one will only come to embody if one lives immersed in that life and realm for a prolonged period of time--constant training until that knowledge is no longer considered separate information but becomes instinct. 

and i could feel myself floating in this no-person's-land when i asked a gallerist friend why everything was closed one saturday and she told me about summer hours. annoyed, frustrated, i felt like a hungry ghost that can only stare at what it can't have. but trying to "gain entry"--what does that even mean? i must have some sort of fundamentally unattainable, absurdly impossible, and completely fictional notion of "belonging" to the art world. and that is probably right. i set my own definition of legitimacy (the creation of which i angrily attribute to "the art world") and thereby deprive myself of it. it's like complaining about others' racist behaviors when i am only reaffirming their racist beliefs precisely by taking them for granted. 

and this is also just a very roundabout way of excusing myself for being slack. i haven't been out as often lately to see shows and another excuse: much of what i have seen haven't strongly inspired my writing about them. but maybe that's just what august does to people and that's why many people abandon the city to lounge around some place with more green or water. i should stop feeling guilty and let myself sit in my air conditioned room all day with a good novel. i am a master fabricator of excuses.

naive optimism: performance art in public space

in continuation of my thoughts on the potential of performance…

- performance evades documentation and therefore stabilization. it creates possibilities of collective memory and myth-making. or erasure from history.

- it holds greater potential for blurring the lines between "art" and "life." because it is not something that can be isolated as an object (and therefore deemed completely external to ourselves) but takes place as an event in space over time (what people do everyday with more or less degree), it can directly address our definition of "normal behavior" and perhaps subvert it, redefine it, or at least reconsider it.

on tuesday, july 23rd, performance artist dovrat meron moderated a roundtable discussion called from site-specific performance to hit and run interventions in the public realm at glasshouse in brooklyn. also part of the bipaf (brooklyn international performance art festival), the discussion followed a presentation by meron on her work, untranslatable words, in which the artist (with a giant plastic ear held to her head) asked people on the street for words they found difficult to translate into other languages. 

around 13 artists and curators were present for the roundtable--many perform or organize performances in public spaces and shared some of their past experiences. for example, rafael sanchez, who often does traveling performances, spoke about the reception of back to africa, 2000, in which he chased buses (in new jersey?) in white face, asking people whether it was the bus back to africa. some, he said, would think him a(nother) crazy person, stand back, and watch in amused or fearful silence. others engaged more actively with the work by responding that yes, the bus would take him to africa, but he has to get off at some point and take another bus.

his anecdote related to other topics raised during the talk, including that of response, censorship, and city regulations. meron opened with an observation that, unlike berlin, where she is based, new york city has very clear distinctions between private and public spaces. but there are those "public" spaces that are semi-private--legally, they may be the city's property, but the locations fall under the semi-control of residents and other private sectors. this was perhaps the most disconcerting (although expected) part of what the participants brought forth as a difficulty of performing in public:

#1. by law, performers do not necessarily need a permit to perform in public, as long as they do not a sound device such as a speaker, megaphone, etc. and do not perform in or next to a park. however, laws of "public disturbance" apply. these appear in several different forms, but they are similar. an act may be considered "disorderly conduct," for example, when the doer has the intention "to cause public inconvenient, annoyance or alarm, or recklessly creating a risk thereof:

1. He engages in fighting or in violent, tumultuous or threatening behavior; or

2. He makes unreasonable noise; or

3. In a public place, he uses abusive or obscene language, or makes an obscene gesture; or

4. Without lawful authority, he disturbs any lawful assembly or meeting of persons; or

5. He obstructs vehicular or pedestrian traffic; or

6. He congregates with other persons in a public place and refuses to comply with a lawful order of the police to disperse; or

7. He creates a hazardous or physically offensive condition by any act which serves no legitimate purpose."

many of the "definitions" for the laws utilize subjective modifiers such as "obscene," "threatening," "offensive," and "unreasonable." the most striking phrase in the last example is "any act which serves no legitimate purpose." who sets the criteria for a "legitimate purpose?" or any of the other qualifiers for that matter? 

if anyone present considers a performance to fall under any of those descriptions, he/she is free to report the performer, who then risks being arrested.

#2. the disturbing part: those who have the power to judge and determine criteria for the "legitimacy" or "threat" of a performance in a public space are the residents, police/law, and possibly most powerful of all, private sectors with money (corporate shareholders of some sort). if one performs on the sidewalk outside of the shiny citigroup center in midtown east, for example, one can be kicked out--maybe more forcefully than if some residents in hell's kitchen complained about some crazies "causing inconvenience." thus the interpretation of various laws--including those on "selling expressive matter" as maria hupfield put it--changes according to those who hold power. in this society, it is probably those who have financial influence.

cara starke of creative time, who was also present at the discussion, noted that budgets are generally set aside for obtaining permits. however, ultimately, as jill mcdermid offered, the issue is not about permits and law, but reception by those at the site. is a work "crazy," "cool," or "art?" to the artist, it probably doesn't matter how the work in interpreted, as long as it creates an effect during its course and hopefully after. but the modes of interpretation sometimes play significant roles in whether or not the artist can present the work at all. it is disheartening to realize that people will be harassed for their expressions--and silenced--if those with money perceive them as inappropriate.

to work around this for larger projects, some try to go through institutions and other parties associated with the location to receive the ok--that is, depend on these powers for the legitimization of the work. however, this method, too, inevitably has its restrictions--these parties have the final say in what can be shown and what cannot. "politically sensitive" material may be censored if the decision-makers do not wish to be aligned with those views. receiving legitimization requires compromise. some artists at the discussion voiced their preference for the "hit and run" route--they may risk getting arrested, but better that than compromising their art for an elite that fears what they do not know.

fear is another topic that was raised. essentially, the interpretation of an act as "threatening," "violent," "disturbing," etc. stems from fear. of what? many artists don't perform with the intention of harming strangers.

the source of fear seems to be a surprise encounter with the unfamiliar. like high school kids picking on someone who likes to hide in a corner and read comic books instead of going to house parties or playing basketball after school. difference causes a "disturbance" to a "norm" and "general order." seeing a stranger suddenly come into their neighborhood to do things they haven't seen people do there (whether it is just asking passersby questions or rolling on the ground flailing their arms about), people who respond in fear probably feel something akin to having an "intruder" in "their" space. 

thus the importance of prior research. starke elaborated that this may not necessarily be an academic read-up on the history of the area, but interaction with the residents, gaining a feel for their "cultural literacy" (that was someone else's term but forgot who said it). acceptance (regardless of what the law or big financial powers say) will depend on this trust--the performer not being a "colonizer," but someone who hopes for mutual exchange on an equal footing.

artist geraldo mercado's statement toward to the end of the discussion is apt here: "is there art here and do people want it?" perhaps the responsibility of the artist is to break open the desire for art through trust. once you have that, you have the potential to transform another person--maybe an entire community or the world.

art bullshit: friday night with weird art people

from mimi fadmi's untitled

climate change: language action poetry facilitators-from asia with love

9pm - 1am friday, july 16th, 2013

at grace exhibition space

840 broadway 2nd floor, brooklyn

as part of the brooklyn international performance art festival (bipaf)

multiple venues

july 4, 2013 - july 28, 2013

from miao jiaxin and lee heeran's money

over the past few years, i have inevitably accumulated more artist and art-related friends than not, but i still have a few friends who don't consider art a big part of their lives. many of them--with jobs in or students of finance, law, or government politics--tell me they don't "get" contemporary art. because i am supposed to be an art critic, they don't say so exactly, but i can hear something like: "art seems like bullshit." they find it inaccessible--its meanings only decipherable by an extensive background in art history. 

i don't really "get" art either, but i try to see a lot. i tend to process information very slowly and carefully so i feel more comfortable with object-based art rather than those which unfold over time. media such as film or performance give me anxiety since i feel i may miss something if i do not pay it extreme attention. this is especially so for live performances--at least i can replay films if i can get my hands on them. so i shy away from performance art. i see less and "get" it less. my choice to see a performance rather than objects is a gamble: when i invest my time in it, i may not be able to write about it or worse, not enjoy it because i find it too cryptic.

i do like the potential of performance to sidestep the commodification of art. sure, places charge money for tickets and the event can become more precious because it is ephemeral. but even with documentation, the fleeting act cannot remain as it is--passed around and reproduced the same way as objects. the performance is already dying as soon as it begins. once over, it is forever dead. but it also lives on through individual and collective memories, where it continually changes shape. that's how myths and legends are created--or forgotten altogether.

from dylan christiawan's performance

a friday night. i finally devoted myself to an evening of performances, part of the bipaf. titled climate change, the event presented work by artists from korea, japan, indonesia, hong kong, and new york-based émigrés. 

the website of the venue--grace exhibition space--declared their lack of a "stage" blurs the line between performer and audience, "the way things should be." i laughed because that's what everyone says. "anyone can enter" and "everyone is free to participate," but as claire bishop has written once on rirkrit tiravanija's work, who is this "everyone?" even if there is no architectural divide that delineates performer and audience, those with power and with none, insider and outsider, that divide is clearly felt. i expected to feel a tension and divide as i did on the first two days of the gramsci monument. however, my friday night was one of the closest experiences i've had to this blurring.

i went alone. i am clearly an outsider to performance art. though many people there seemed to know each other there, that didn't seem to matter. it felt like a casual and open house party, the kind where one expects people to show up uninvited, mingle, and have fun like everyone else. no insider codes, only basic social etiquette. despite the fact that i was (i think) the only person there writing furiously on my notepad throughout most of the night, i never felt unwelcome. maybe it helped that many present were performance artists themselves--i find that artists more used to interaction with strangers (directly or at least being watched by them) rather than those who make objects or ideas in solitary confinement most of the time have more flexible walls. as an introvert who goes to events alone, i tend to repel people (yes, i have magical powers), but during breaks between performances, many came up to me to start a conversation and artists said hi to me (i had never heard of any of them). one person did an e.t. thing at me with his finger. i responded by touching his finger with mine, and mimicked his gestures when he touched his finger to his chest and between his brows. (i later found out he was a performance artist. he thanked me for "giving [him] the finger." indeed i saw him do it to other strangers and they would not lift a finger. punny roll)

the structure of the event was very casual. a performance, then a few minutes break to set-up for the next one, then another. the "stage" moved around constantly around the spacious venue. the event went way past the designated end time, 11pm. but i enjoyed every minute of it.

image credit: bushwick daily

i arrived a few minutes late, so i missed the first performance by (i think) yuenjie maru from hong kong and i began my night with w christiawan's action poetry #9. the indonesian artist was dressed in a white cotton dress (the kind for prairie frolicking, age c. 12) with the front unbuttoned. he stood below a camera on the ceiling that pointed directly down to the floor. the camera's images were projected onto a screen behind christiawan the whole time, with a red dot and minutes indicating that it was recording. most of the time, the artist was facing away from the audience or sideways so that my gaze kept shifting to the screen. the screen didn't provide much of a frontal view of the work either, but the framed image possessed an uncanny cinematic lure. the directly downward shot rendered his body (his bald head) abstract. when he began to use props (an ipad, a dead chicken? and an egg, black tape) their arrangements within the frame became flat pictures. he paused frequently between his acts of holding his ipad (photographic close-up of his own face) upside down between his legs, pulling out a stiff chicken, then later an egg also from between his legs. 

the juxtaposition of his emotionally charged but carefully executed movements with the flat still images on the screen called forth an uncomfortable reminder of our own relationship to the "physical" and "digital." here, the two realms appeared separate, functioning regardless of the other's rules or activities. but the recording image held sway--was it because i'm also part of a generation used to living through the screen and the camera? even at a live performance, my eyes turned to the screen. my favorite quote by david levi strauss came to mind: 

"it's not that we mistake photographs for reality; we prefer them to reality. we cannot bear reality, but we bear images--like stigmata, like children, like fallen comrades. we suffer them. we idealize them. we believe them because we need what we are in them."

the disturbing aspect is that the projected (preferred) image completely eliminated the charge of the artist's gestures, which simply became indifferent forms. a broken egg at the center, half of a chicken peaking from one side, and a bare, limp arm of the prostrate artist also cut off by an edge of the frame. when the kneeling christiawan held up the egg toward the ceiling with a trembling hand, his fearful offering to the camera dominated the field of my vision; yet, the screen displayed a plain egg as a center of focus. the artist's knees and shortened limbs became other formal components of a compositional image. dramatic climax: when he later began wrapping his head with black tape--covering his nose and mouth--he struggled to breathe, but the screen showed next to no hint of his pain. christawan was silenced, and the recorded image will refuse to speak.

most of the work presented was political. the next work was by arai shin-ichi, ironically titled, i like america. on the wall a large collage of black and white photocopies of american magazines and other media. the japanese artist had written "i like america" upside in red; adjacent to the collage also hung a copy of the 84th issue of october magazine (spring, 1998, according to my calculations). arai began by reading a short introduction about himself (from tokyo) and his hometown (a countryside near tokyo). he took down the collage and journal, placed both on the ground--the latter in front and center, close to the audience. then followed a weaving of his personal narrative and painting. he recalled his memories as a child--idolizing the very expensive coca cola, american troops giving children chocolates, and even sang and danced the japanese commercial for del monte ketchup ("derumonte, derumonte, derumonte kechapu"). according to the content of each anecdote, he sprayed tubes of del monte ketchup, heinz mayo, hershey's chocolate syrup, french's mustard, or relish. in the beginning, his painting seemed like offerings to the shrine of american pop culture--especially the gentle sprinklings of relish by hand--but his movements gradually took an angry turn as he violently squeezed the containers, banged them against the floor, and shook them in the air, spraying the surrounding viewers. 

when his painting was "done" ("more black," he said once, and took out more chocolate syrup), he told the audience about when he first learned of jackson pollock, clement greenberg, john cage, etc (1998?). he held up the copy of october and said reading the journal was difficult because of the english, and it contained few images. he read the list of editors and contributors, tore off the cover, and laid it at the same place on the ground.

japadog. sausage fest. he proceeded to strip naked. he slipped on, swam in, and muddled his condiment pollock. a strong scent of mustard and sweet vinegar filled the space. he stood up to read the first sentence of the first page, tore the page in half, and put one half in his mouth. handing the other half to an audience member, he looked straight at him/her and said, "i like america." 

then repeat. 

he must have gone through half of the volume when one could no longer discern the words he was reading. he had difficulty breathing. he teared and coughed with his mouth full of october; the very words he tried to read prevented him from speech. a painful few minutes. then he took out the saliva-soaked pages from his mouth, bowed and said, thank you.

next, an equally political and angry language flower by korean artist, gim gwang cheol. on the ground lay a parcel wrapped in newspaper (international herald tribune) and red rubber string. gim slowly unraveled the string by pulling one end and allowing the parcel to turn over on its side. he tied one end of the string to an index finger of one audience member, the other end to that of another across his stage. he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and unwrapped the newspaper, which contained a single red brick. he twisted the taught string around his neck without using his hands and hung a loose piece of string near his head. his right foot on the brick, he proceeded to read the paper (the tribune and english print of korea joongang daily), turning and pausing at different angles with each open page. 

when he was done reading, he removed a box cutter from his pocket and began shredding the paper. the knife ripped down through the pages and his hand shook them out until none remained whole. he twisted their ends into bunches and held them in his mouth. only the top of his head peered over. the paper ribbons spilled out--an explosive bouquet of disembodied words.

after squeezing a whole orange over his head, he furiously tied the spare red string around the shreds. around and around the string went, binding the voluminous flow into one stiff and suffocated braid. it stuck out straight from the artist's face like a mute beak. his neck still fettered by the same red string, he drew near the audience members and swept over their faces with the end of the paper rod. the communion inflicted change: gim vehemently began to twist and turn the paper still clenched between his teeth. he freed his neck from the string with his knife. finally removing the paper from his mouth, he used the same knife to shred one end, which spilled out again into a paper bouquet. he tied the other end to the brick, its base. alas, the final product. declaring it a "language flower," he thanked the audience and bowed.

(due to time/space constraints and laziness, i am skipping the next three performances by indonesia's mimi fadmi, korea's park kyung hwa, and indonesia's dylan christiawan.)

the last piece, titled money, was a collaboration by new york-based artists lee heeran and miao jiaxin. the work gave a refreshingly sexual turn to the largely political trajectory of the evening's performances. the process of prior preparation, pleasure, then a much longer process of an aftermath/clean up--here money and sex were virtually synonymous with each other. miao in his sharp black suit was the pleasure/sex/money-seeker, lee in her red lipstick, black spandex, and red high-heeled boots, the sultry and dominant pleasure-giver. 

like many pleasures in life, miao's was short-lived; most time was devoted to its preparation and "clean up." to prepare for his "blow job," miao took up put on a white painter's coverall and climbed a ladder to cut a square opening in the ceiling. he stripped down to his underwear and lay face-up on the ground. lee approached with a red leaf blower and a pile of rubber material. placing the rubber on top of miao's passive body, lee inserted one end of the blower into an opening of the deflated balloon and began to blow. the balloon grew and grew--it contained a mass of u.s. dollar bills that flew about the expanding space. when miao's body became barely visible and the balloon loomed close to the ceiling, it finally popped. a short climb to the climax. 

then the unsexy aftermath. after lee tapped miao, motioning him to get up, both crouched on the ground to gather the scattered bills and pieces of rubber. miao put on his black suit and white coveralls while lee wrapped the money into a neat bundle. her job done, lee strutted away, flashing the black heels of her shoes. miao spent the next 15 minutes  placing the bundle in the ceiling, nailing the square shut, spreading two rounds of wall sealer around the edges, and finally, painting over it. tedious and long-drawn process. was the pleasure worth the trouble?

i am not used to writing about performance so trying to write about some of the work this evening took me longer than i usually take for other posts (excuses!). i find that performance invites poetry, though, and i feel freer as a writer even simply describing the movements i saw. performance also creates more possibilities for art writing through its peculiar interaction with memory. i replay and relive the past, but it changes each time i recall. but perhaps all the more difficult to write about because of it.

i haven't been to many other events, but i plan to, and highly recommend others to attend at least one during the bipaf. it runs through july 28th. even if you don't "get" it, it's fun. give artistic bullshit a chance.