Page 34 of Stay Awake
“Text me the details and I’ll be there.”
In truth, I’m kicking myself. I would never say this at the office, but I’ve never been to a performance art event that didn’t make me want to barf. Maybe I’m cynical, or maybe I’ve seen too much in my life, but I find these sorts of things fatuous and self-indulgent.
Also, I can’t bear the thought of letting Amy down tonight by not turning up for her birthday celebration. I certainly can’t stand up Marco. He’s coming as my plus-one. It wouldn’t be fair to him if I came late, especially since Amy is one of his least favorite people in the world. As Marco says, my boyfriend and my best friend don’t actually need to like each other.
I text Marco on the way to the gallery to tell him that I have to cancel the predinner drinks we’d arranged.I have to stop off at an art show for the magazine. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.
Fine,he responds. I can tell he’s pissed.
The gallery is in a renovated red-brick warehouse by the Manhattan Bridge. A bronze plaque by the entrance says it used to store cotton at the turn of the twentieth century. The address that Frank sent takes me to an entrance at the rear of the building.
I go around the block into a narrow back alley alongside a wirefence until I find a doorway between two lots of Dumpsters that smell of rotting garbage. The door is turquoise. It has a sign on it that says:Q: ADVANCE VIEWING. ENTRY BY INVITATION ONLY.
I’m surprised such a well-known artist would have his preview in such an awful location. Maybe that’s the point; Q is a guerrilla artist. Perhaps walking past Dumpsters to get into the exhibition is part of the “guerrilla experience.”
I swallow my apprehension as I push open the turquoise door. There’s no public relations person armed with glossy brochures to meet me at the entrance. I presume that’s because I’m late. A hum of chatter and clinking glasses deep inside the gallery tells me the art show is in full swing.
Walking across a polished concrete floor, I reach a door with a sign that says:ENTER HERE. The door leads me into a dark room. Tiny fairy lights on the floor delineate a path in the dark. I can just make out a wall of lockers and another sign saying:CONDITION OF ENTRY: ALL BAGS, PHONES AND OTHER POSSESSIONS ARE TO BE LEFT IN A SECURE LOCKER.
It’s inconvenient since there’s no way to take notes or record interviews without using my phone, but I play by the rules. I lock my purse in a locker and put the key, which is on a multicolored elastic band, over my wrist like a bracelet. I’ll take notes in my head and write them all down when I get out of here.
The ambient sounds of people talking and a string quartet moving into Vivaldi’sFour Seasonsgets louder as I move past the lockers toward a partly open door. Through the gap, I glimpse a bold red canvas on a wall.
Someone taps a wineglass with a knife to get everyone’s attention. It’s followed by an announcement by an MC asking everyone to gather for speeches.
I rush through the open door into the gallery, keen not to miss the speeches. When I’m inside, I halt midstep. The red canvas is not real.It’s a projection on a white wall. All the other walls are empty. There’s no artwork on the walls at all. No paintings. No people. No waiters wandering around with trays of glasses filled with red and white wine. No MC.
The door behind me slams shut. The ambient sounds of the gallery show continue on the other side of a wall. I feel trapped and disoriented, like I’ve taken a wrong turn in a maze. I’m trying to figure out how to reach the art show when the lights go off.
I stand still, blind and helpless in the dark. I focus all my senses on the hum of the art show behind the wall, until suddenly that sound disappears as well. It’s replaced by a hollow silence. The only sounds are my own heartbeat and quickening breath.
A frisson of terror runs through me as I recognize how vulnerable I am, alone in a warehouse. A spotlight turns on. Its beam moves along the floor playfully as if urging me to join it. I follow the beam into another room, equally dark and silent.
Another spotlight turns on and settles on an exhibit surrounded by red velvet ropes. A woman sits on a wooden chair. Frayed sailing rope is wrapped around her torso. I can’t see her face. There’s a burlap sack over her head. Her ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. Her arms are tied behind her back.
A museum sign says:WOMAN ON CHAIR.
That’s when I realize the woman is the display.
She groans and contorts her body as if trying to break the bonds that tie her to the chair. Her dress is ripped open, revealing a lace bra and smooth pale flesh.
Performance art has never been to my taste, but I’m here to write about it, so I walk closer to get a better look. A whispered chant gets louder the closer I get to the red velvet barrier, until it becomes deafening:“Kill. Kill. Kill.”
The woman emits an animal groan as the chanting roars louder. It sounds as if she’s gagged under the burlap sack. The sounds she makesare barely human. On a table next to her is a glass box. Inside are a knife and a pair of scissors. Next to it is a hammer. A sign on the table says:DO NOT TOUCH.
“Kill. Kill. Kill,”the chanting continues.
As the chanting reaches a fever pitch, I reach the velvet ropes cordoning off the “exhibit.” I’m close enough to the woman to see a tattoo of tiny, brightly colored butterflies on her shoulder.
Black-and-white footage appears on the stark white walls of the room. The footage is badly scratched like an old-fashioned movie film reel.
On one wall is footage of a woman undressing until she is naked. She slides into a bath and fully immerses herself under water. All that can be seen are bubbles of various sizes at the top of the water until they, too, disappear and there is nothing.
On another screen is a young woman leaving an apartment building. It’s filmed from the perspective of a voyeur watching the woman from the bushes.
On the third and largest screen, a woman walks across an empty parking lot to her car late at night. The heels of her shoes click with each step that she takes. Heavy breathing in the background gets louder and louder, mocking the woman’s lack of awareness that she’s being watched. She presses her electronic key to open her car. It beeps twice.
High-pitched violin notes rise deafeningly as the camera gets closer and closer, zooming in on her eyes widening as she realizes she’s in danger. As the violin hits the highest note, the footage on all the screens disappears in a tide of spilt red.
