I am an artist, 49 years of age. My medium was sculpture. I have excelled, become well known and well off. A few months ago, however, I decided I was tired of making sculpture. Partly, I had said whatever I could say. Partly, the medium is bankrupt. We have seen it all before, from classical sculpture to sculpture made of trash and exhibiting one's unmade bed after a night of sex, drink and smoke. Sculpture is over for me.
My medium will hence be myself. I will go down to the very essence and will not hide behind a thing anymore. Before you accuse me, I am not saying this is new per se. Perhaps performance art is bankrupt as well. It is new to me, however, and I have something I want to say. On the human condition. Yes, you might say … Narcissism, mid-life crisis… Maybe. I hope to find out.
The present will bring my first event as a performance artist. I could have done this anywhere I wanted on the back of my reputation. Yet I wanted a modest venue. Ironically that was harder. Evidently their reputations are more fragile. I had to exhaust my extensive network of contacts to be given the opportunity to conduct the performance, when a small gallery in Hoboken, NJ, stuck out their neck and allowed it. They, as I, will run a risk, but they decided the publicity will be worth it, regardless.
The exhibition space is a single big and square room of approximately 10 x 10 sq. m. The ceiling is some 6 m high. A great space. It has been divided in half, one side for me, the other for the audience. What separates the two sides is a glass wall. It can be made into a great one-sided mirror using a second panel, such that the mirror side faces me, who on the other hand can be seen at all times by the audience. The control is on the other side, needless to say. Every 10th visitor will get a code to enable her or him to raise or lower it depending on its current position.
I will be in this space for one month. A long time, as I will not leave my 50 sq. m and there are no windows to the outside world. I have no TV or radio. There will be no books or papers, nothing to read. There will be all manner of writing and drawing materials and paper. Whatever I write or draw during a day will be collected and placed in a folder on the other side, for the audience to see. I cannot live without music, so will have a CD player, with an allowance of two hours per day. The idea - mine! - is to be isolated with my self and thoughts, albeit with an audience. The public can visit me 24 hours a day. For safety, a guard is present at the entrance, outside the exhibition space, and all visitors will leave any luggage there and pass through a metal detector. Both facilities are at my expense.
This is the day of the opening. I am in my apartment preparing. I say preparing - there is little to do. I have to choose what to wear at the opening and what CDs to take. Here I am - the famous artist, with more money than I'd ever need - and I am frightful and nervous. I knew I would be when I planned this event and that the nervosity in fact would be the whole point: I wanted to meet my naked core, be thrown back to myself and show the result to the public. The audience is necessary to place me on my toes. Still, to know why does not fully ease my nerves. I think of my actor friends who will suffer this all the time, no matter what their experience.
The CDs are easy. My wardrobe now is more difficult. Should I select one of my power suits? Or rather my most seductive wear? Or things I wear when I lounge around at home? Or those I wear when visiting a friend? Or the rags I wear when sculpting? I narrow down the selection to the power suit - for pleading with the audience to give me this life - or the work clothes - I, the ex-sculptor to be. I will settle for a combination. Work clothes, my dusty rags, over the refined chemise, glittery pantyhose and my best set of underwear. The combination makes sense to me. I dress slowly, as if choreographed, and am ready.
My first opening... I remember it well. I had been out of Art College for four years. I had graduated quite well, but had gone underground soon after. I felt I needed the time to reinvent myself and determine what I needed to create and why. Some of my peers, many less talented, had already made a mark of sorts and were being talked about. It was the faith of that gallery owner who had admired my graduation work, had said that he was ready for me when I was ready myself, that gave me my start. I will not say this first exhibition contained my best work ever, but on the whole it was good and some pieces are still counted among my best, over two decades later. The question I now ponder - was I more nervous then than I am now? The answer is no. Then I was not nervous at all. Not cocky, but simply confident. My work was good. I knew that.
This time, however, there is no work. Just me. Arguably past my prime. I draw confidence from being fit and on weight. Indeed, it is not my nudity per se that makes me nervous. It is not my body alone that is on display; there is my person and reputation. True, but it is the artistic side that worries me the most.
My nerves leave me when I enter the gallery. It is my turf. It is three hours before the opening. I am at ease when I speak to the proprietor and an assistant. They are clearly in awe of me and my fame, in spite of what I have decided to involve them with. They know full well what I will do. I cannot help a smile when this phrase crosses my mind: I will exhibit the empress' new clothes.
After going through the organizational details once more, I go and check upon the spaces again. All the finishing touches will have been made. It is an awesome creation, if I say so myself. The half for the audience consists of three arrangements of settee, two easy chairs and a coffee table. At the far end there is a little coffee bar, to be open day and night. The rest is open space, good for, I guess, a crowd of some 50 people. Its walls and ceiling are matte black. The large glass partition leaves no door to my half. I look at that half from the that of the audience. I will live there. I WILL LIVE THERE! It is so bare! The walls on my side are made entirely of mirrors, all the 6 m up to the ceiling, all 10 m, respectively 5 m along. And so is the ceiling itself, and the floor. When there, I get the feeling of floating in mid-air and also to be super-exposed. There is little furniture. A desk with a chair, a table with a chair for my meals, an armchair and a side-table with the CD player. The tables and desk are made of Plexiglas. Pens, pencils, crayons, paper, a pair of scissors are on a shelf below the sidetable’s top surface. There is a kitchenette in one corner. The refrigerator can be stocked from the outside - the gallery's office. There is a shower enclosed in a glass partition. I have a single bed, again enclosed by a glass partition complete with door. This I thought necessary, as I did not allow myself bed covers, therefore needed a somewhat higher temperature here. Also because I realized I am sensitive to draughts. The toilet finally is made of glass and again needed its own partition, of glass of course, because of the inevitable smells. Should I have omitted this partition? I might have, but here we are. I can be well seen, whatever I do. Finally, I have found it necessary to include a sculpture of mine (quite appropriately my tribute to Marcel Duchamp, La Mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires. I am célibataire here, made nude by herself!) I am not renouncing what I created. I am proud of what I made and it provides good decoration. It defines my past and I merely discontinued making more. There are three fixed video cameras that register my performance - one from the back of the audience's side, near the ceiling pointing down, one from the same position at my side, pointing down sharply, and one from one of the side of the room at chest level. All have a semi-wide angle. Then there is a fourth camera in a corner near the partition that follows me, directed by the heat of my body. To register is mandatory in performance art, I have considered, so I have called for these cameras. Whether I will produce a film of my performance and issue the inevitable DVD remains to be seen.
The invited guests enter. Many I know. There are many friends or familiar figures of the art world, fellow-artists, critics, collectors... They do not know what is in store. They only know - Vanna Vechian - The opening, from --- to --- (1 month.) By implication, 'the Opening' is the title of the exhibition. I do not let on. 'You'll find out soon,' I smile, 'It is new for me too.' We have a drink of champagne or two and chatter away nicely. I have a good time and forget myself. Finally, the owner taps his glass for attention. We all turn to him, myself included, still part of the crowd.
'How do you like the display you see on the other side of the glass screen? What you see, I think, is a beautiful, meaningful commentary on how easily the essence, the structure of how we live is overlooked if we are not careful. You see life's bare bones, transparent, almost absent, of course if we except Vanna's beautiful sculpture, the most real item there. Sadly, that Vanna is no more. The sculpture is a reminder of her past. Unrenounced, but passed. Vanna Vechian will no longer speak through her artifacts. She will now speak through herself. Time for the essence. The essence, not of the world that surrounds us, but of what a human being is, the human being called Vanna Vechian. No words will she speak but you will understand nonetheless. Do listen.'
He pauses. We all look at him. But with the seconds, a minute ticking by, people start turning my way. I merely smile.
Until he calls me forward. 'Vanna, it is time.' And, 'Friends, do make some space.' I go forward and stand next to him. He creates a circle of two arm lengths around us.
'Vanna, may I ask you...'
I look around and see all in the eyes. I do not speak. They are at rapt attention, with one or two skeptics among their number, of course, of course... I then leave gently push through the crowd – I know most, mind you – and leave this half of the space. In the office the assistant awaits me. He unlocks the door to my space and ushers me in. I am in. For one month.
I hear the door being locked behind me. I am in this insane space, with mirrors and mirrors and my multiple self. The window in front of me – they have dimmed the lights and it is so dark on the other side. I see vague figures - the ones that stand up front. I move to the centre of the space. There, slowly, I strike a number of poses and turn around full circle as I go along. I cannot help being a touch embarrassed. Not an actress.
Then I stand still for a minute or two, until with deliberate movements I start taking off my clothes. One shoe down, and another, and I step out of the baggy combat trousers I used to wear when I worked - the glittery pantyhose with embroidered calves is revealed. My sweatshirt goes over my head - a tight-fitting silk top is revealed, square cleavage, cap sleeves, bare arms. I neatly fold up both. The same choreography of poses whilst turning is executed. I am embarrassed still.
I sit down and take off the left leg of the hose – can this be done more elegantly? -, next the right and fold the set on top of the work clothes. The top follows. As do my bra and panties. Picking up the pile of clothes I proceed to the door. I knock and it opens. I pass the clothes over and the door closes again. I go to the centre of the room and assume what is known as the display position: legs apart, arms high and hands behind my neck. Embarrassed! What am I doing here? So narcissistic! Yes, get a grip, woman! You have to go on. I concentrate on controlling my breath.
Here is a 49-year-old woman, famous, wealthy and nude. She has a good body for her age, but she is clearly a day or two older than the average wench on display. She is being judged. Even if many of the audience are sympathetic, she will still be judged. There are two or three past lovers in the audience, going back 15, 20 years, who saw her unadorned then. They may be the more ruthless judges. Or even embarrassed themselves.
I now turn around in steps - by one quarter circle every minute or so until I have rotated twice. Then I stand still for five more minutes until the audience starts to appear restless. Time for the final action until the long, long month starts.
As agreed, the owner lowers the panel. The great mirror makes me truly alone. I stare at the nude form in front of me. I am obscenely nude. There. Nude. My essence? Who knows? Hogwash, perhaps! And why do I say ‘obscenely’? Why do play judge myself and what’s more with moral implication? Be breath, no more.
I sigh, then shrug my shoulders and walk up to the desk to fetch the scissors. Razor-sharp barber's scissors they are. I look at my head of hair. Go on, forthwith! The scissors go snap, snap as I cut and cut and cut strands of my hair away with decisive gestures. The back of my head is hard to do, but I manage. I have play-practiced. No prizes at stake. In mere minutes my shoulder length, well groomed hair looks like a tramp's, or, dare I say it, that of a victim of cancer. (The human condition, but not mine…) My pubic hair is trimmed already. I fetch an electric trimmer and complete the look of both my head and my pubic hair. Vanna Vechian, mark II - brand spanking new! - is finished.
To be continued...
(*Read more stories by Vanna Vechian)
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