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Abstract

to believe he created me, owns me, can just summon me with a snap of his fingers. That’s the fury.Alice turns me to face her, brushes invisible dust off my shoulders, and kisses me, tenderly. “You okay?”“Better than okay,” I tell her, smiling. Because that’s true, too. Being on stage, again, playing up the crowd, showing up the great Chaws — that was as fun as our reunion was sad. I was already thinking of the act. Performance art demands novelty.Alice, Steve, Jimmy, and I set to work designing the next performance. It felt like the old days, but instead of the usual push-and-pull of collaboration with Chuck, it was more of a head-on competition. I told myself I was saving a once-great poet from the slow, humiliating decline at the hands of his co-ed cohorts, but his arrogance fueled something darker. Devastation. That’s what I was aiming for.Working title: Voyeur. Mental title: You wish.The costume: Human Smartphone. Dressed in a green, skin-tight body-suit painted with lines of metallic silver circuitry, I donned a rectangular cardboard box. The front of the box was a rigid sheet of lightweight plexiglass. Jimmy had rigged it so that we could project video on the surface, then “go dark” and see my shape and circuitry — lit up with tiny, silver LEDs — when the video was over. The controls would be wired to my ankles: Point my toes to the right, press Play. To the left, go dark — let the inner light shine.Meanwhile, Steve and Alice were editing video in the guest room.We got to the Jail Bar at 9:30 PM — after the novice acts had warmed up the crowd, or bored them nearly to tears — the headliners would take their turn. Liquor sales were the “stock ticker” that determined which acts lived, which died, and which moved on to do solo shows at the MOMA.At 10:00 PM sharp, the house lights went down while Steve and Jimmy guided me up the stairs and positioned me, center stage. I clicked my heels together and a faint, blue LED glow outlined the screen. I pointed my toes to the right. From my side of the screen, everything was mirrored; words appeared backwards. I’d asked them not to show me the footage; let me be as surprised as the audience.Whe

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n the Great Chaws appeared on-screen, I had to stifle a gasp. There he was, urinating on the side of the building, next to the cardboard box Little Willy called home. Nothing left to the imagination, there. He peeled off a few large bills and handed them to the bum, who nodded gratefully. Then laughed.Just how low had Chuck fallen? I hadn’t expected that.Cut to Alice and me. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks as she knelt above me while I slept — when had this happened? She slowly, erotically, peeled a banana, turned to look at the camera over her shoulder, and took a bite. Swallowed it whole. Tossed the peel, turned out the lights, and laughed.The audience roared as the footage, cut to look like an old documentary film reel, “flapped” and faded to black. I pointed my toes left. Lit up in silver LEDs, the beating heart of the machine illuminated in the darkness, I ripped my way out of the cardboard box, as planned. But this…wasn’t planned. I needed air. I couldn’t breathe in the box. Two halves clattered to the stage.I’d almost forgotten the “artist statement” — but I could see the audience, transfixed. Chuck, mortified. Without waiting for his cue, they began to snap their fingers.Me? I suddenly remembered the purpose of the piece, snapped back into artist mode. I slid down into a side split, arched my back away from the crowd, knowing my crotch was lit up like a Christmas tree in LED lights, and shot up one hand — one perfectly manicured middle finger, and let loose the cri du coeur: “Fuck technology!”As the house lights go dark, I point my toes to turn off the LEDs. I’ve killed two birds with one stone. The crowd starts to shout, in earnest, and we all know what that means. Riots are to performance art what finger-snaps are to beat poets, applause to pop singers, and the NYT bestseller lists to authors. I scramble to my feet, fast. Marina Abramovic I’m not — I won’t let them tear me apart in the name of art. I leave the costume — masterpiece that it is — and run out the back, where Jimmy’s waiting with his little Prius.“Where to?” he asks, as I fall in and slam the door shut without a backwards glance.I shrug. “Anywhere but here.”</article></body>

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

Voyeur

It propelled her to international stardom, but at what price?

Part One is “Chaws” The Beat Poet by Charles Roast; Part Two is The Performance Artist by Holly Jahangiri; Part Three is Poetic Moments in the Betrayal of “Chaws”, by Charles Roast; Part Four is Hey, Electrical Banana, Stay Down by Holly Jahangiri. Part Five is When the Bum Stings, by Charles Roast. This is Part Six.

By the time we put the gear back into the storage shed, we’re all exhausted. It’s way past one, and we’re feeling all right, but we’re none of us “spring chickens” anymore and we part with hugs — not a hit off the ol’ bong and another round of napalm punch.

There’s a darkening cloud hanging over my head. I can’t name the emotion, but it’s a cross between livid fury and grief. Chuck’s worth more than the insipid little co-eds who pretend to fawn over him but mock him behind his back. That’s the grief. But I’m worth more, now, too, than this piggish Pygmalion who’d like to believe he created me, owns me, can just summon me with a snap of his fingers. That’s the fury.

Alice turns me to face her, brushes invisible dust off my shoulders, and kisses me, tenderly. “You okay?”

“Better than okay,” I tell her, smiling. Because that’s true, too. Being on stage, again, playing up the crowd, showing up the great Chaws — that was as fun as our reunion was sad. I was already thinking of the act. Performance art demands novelty.

Alice, Steve, Jimmy, and I set to work designing the next performance. It felt like the old days, but instead of the usual push-and-pull of collaboration with Chuck, it was more of a head-on competition. I told myself I was saving a once-great poet from the slow, humiliating decline at the hands of his co-ed cohorts, but his arrogance fueled something darker. Devastation. That’s what I was aiming for.

Working title: Voyeur. Mental title: You wish.

The costume: Human Smartphone. Dressed in a green, skin-tight body-suit painted with lines of metallic silver circuitry, I donned a rectangular cardboard box. The front of the box was a rigid sheet of lightweight plexiglass. Jimmy had rigged it so that we could project video on the surface, then “go dark” and see my shape and circuitry — lit up with tiny, silver LEDs — when the video was over. The controls would be wired to my ankles: Point my toes to the right, press Play. To the left, go dark — let the inner light shine.

Meanwhile, Steve and Alice were editing video in the guest room.

We got to the Jail Bar at 9:30 PM — after the novice acts had warmed up the crowd, or bored them nearly to tears — the headliners would take their turn. Liquor sales were the “stock ticker” that determined which acts lived, which died, and which moved on to do solo shows at the MOMA.

At 10:00 PM sharp, the house lights went down while Steve and Jimmy guided me up the stairs and positioned me, center stage. I clicked my heels together and a faint, blue LED glow outlined the screen. I pointed my toes to the right. From my side of the screen, everything was mirrored; words appeared backwards. I’d asked them not to show me the footage; let me be as surprised as the audience.

When the Great Chaws appeared on-screen, I had to stifle a gasp. There he was, urinating on the side of the building, next to the cardboard box Little Willy called home. Nothing left to the imagination, there. He peeled off a few large bills and handed them to the bum, who nodded gratefully. Then laughed.

Just how low had Chuck fallen? I hadn’t expected that.

Cut to Alice and me. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks as she knelt above me while I slept — when had this happened? She slowly, erotically, peeled a banana, turned to look at the camera over her shoulder, and took a bite. Swallowed it whole. Tossed the peel, turned out the lights, and laughed.

The audience roared as the footage, cut to look like an old documentary film reel, “flapped” and faded to black. I pointed my toes left. Lit up in silver LEDs, the beating heart of the machine illuminated in the darkness, I ripped my way out of the cardboard box, as planned. But this…wasn’t planned. I needed air. I couldn’t breathe in the box. Two halves clattered to the stage.

I’d almost forgotten the “artist statement” — but I could see the audience, transfixed. Chuck, mortified. Without waiting for his cue, they began to snap their fingers.

Me? I suddenly remembered the purpose of the piece, snapped back into artist mode. I slid down into a side split, arched my back away from the crowd, knowing my crotch was lit up like a Christmas tree in LED lights, and shot up one hand — one perfectly manicured middle finger, and let loose the cri du coeur: “Fuck technology!”

As the house lights go dark, I point my toes to turn off the LEDs. I’ve killed two birds with one stone. The crowd starts to shout, in earnest, and we all know what that means. Riots are to performance art what finger-snaps are to beat poets, applause to pop singers, and the NYT bestseller lists to authors. I scramble to my feet, fast. Marina Abramovic I’m not — I won’t let them tear me apart in the name of art. I leave the costume — masterpiece that it is — and run out the back, where Jimmy’s waiting with his little Prius.

“Where to?” he asks, as I fall in and slam the door shut without a backwards glance.

I shrug. “Anywhere but here.”