Zen in the Art of Performance

I wanted to be a performance artist ever since I first read about Chris Burden. Burden became famous in the 1970s for nailing himself to a Volkswagen Beetle, being kicked down two flights of stairs, and shooting himself in the arm with a rifle. Burden is legendary, but he wasn’t particularly interesting compared to those who would come after him. For example, Marina Abramović let strangers torture her, and Mao Sugiyama served his genitals at a dinner party. While many people adore Petr Pavlensky for cutting off his earlobe or nailing his scrotum to Red Square, my dream was to make a sustainable career out of performance art — and I’ve only got so many body parts.

I dreamed of becoming the Bob Ross of performance art. I started with the things I would normally do as a preteen boy. I spent hours tying and untying my shoes. I found new ways to brush my teeth. I played in the snow while wearing only one glove.

Despite being mostly ignored during my early years as a performance artist, I persisted. But by the time I was 15, I was out of ideas and had intense feelings of ennui towards performance art. By then, my mother had come to an understanding about what I was trying to do. She suggested perhaps there was a summer camp for young performance artists that I could attend. We checked the usual places — the Department of Parks and Recreation, the classified ads, and even with the local community college’s art department — but no one had ever heard of such a summer camp.

I began writing letters to my idols, seeking advice. My letters went unanswered at first, and I blamed myself and my naivety. But then I got a response that gave me hope. The letter came from the famous French balloon swallower and professional eater, Pierre Toupee. To be honest, I only wrote to Mr. Toupee out of desperation. What he does is barely performance art. But he was the first artist to write back. His response, on colorful letterhead, read, “I’m not sure I have much advice to give, and I’m also very busy.”

I realized why I wasn’t getting any responses. If a 2nd-tier (or maybe 3rd-tier) performance artist such as Pierre Toupee was too busy to respond to a letter, how much busier must the artists on my A-list be? A performance artist expects to receive something surprising and disturbing in his mail. A sincere letter from a 15-year-old wannabe wouldn’t even make it past the mailroom.

I got more creative with my letters. I collected my finger- and toenail trimmings and mailed them to one artist. To another, I sent all the pencil shavings left from writing letters to the other artists, along with a simple note that read, “You figure it out.”

I narrowed my correspondence to just five of my favorite performance artists, and every week I sent each of them a new package, along with my business card. After six months, I got a response. It was a plain brown paper package, heavily taped. I can still smell the package and I remember how carefully I removed each piece of tape, getting hold of it under my fingernails and then unwrapping as much as I could without tearing the paper before moving on to another edge of the tape and repeating the process.

Inside, I found a matchstick with red pubic hair wound tightly around it. A note on the inside of the brown paper, scrawled in crayon, read, “Strike me.” I did. I held it between my thumb and forefinger as it burned down the tip and then caught the hair on fire. I stared at this simple act of performance art until the tips of my fingers burned and I released the end of the match with a flourish.

This was the beginning of what would be a 2-year correspondence with Michelle Cordova. I’d respond to her packages with a typed letter recounting how each package made me feel, and she’d respond with something new.

When I was 18, I appended a P.S. to my usual letter, asking whether she might consider taking me on as an intern.

Her response was a postcard from New York with the words “8:00 Thursday” scrawled on the back. I bought a bus ticket to New York for Wednesday, packed a backpack, and eagerly awaited whatever would happen. I debated whether to bring along any of the standard performance art supplies I had collected over the years: blindfolds, broken TV parts, wire, scissors, a jockstrap. In the end, I left everything behind and approach this new experience with a beginner’s mind. I had no idea how radically my life and my perception of the world would change in the coming months. If I had known, I wouldn’t have left Indiana.

My bus arrived at Penn Station at 5:00PM on Wednesday. I didn’t want to take any chances of missing the appointment. I found a Village Voice at the bus terminal and skimmed it, looking for Michelle Cordova’s name. I found an event listing that read:

“Performance Art @ Washington Square Park, Thursday”

Surely, if there was a major show of performance art, Michelle would be the headline act. I started walking, expecting that the journey could take all night and that I would be like Moses wandering in the desert and discovering amazing things all night.

To my surprise, I arrived at the park in well under an hour, and it seemed as if the performance art event had already started. Hundreds of people were milling around, some playing chess, some playing music, some roller-skating, some eating. In one corner of the park, I saw a woman standing on a park bench, as still as a statue. As I approached, I recognized her. She did absolutely nothing. People would toss change into a small box at her feet, expecting that she’d come to life or acknowledge them, but she stubbornly refused to do anything more than occasionally blink her eyes. It was brilliant in its simplicity.

As the park got darker and the crowds thinned out, Michelle stepped down from the bench, stretched her arms and legs, and lit a cigarette. She picked up her money box, and, without a word, pointed at me and bent her finger. I followed. We walked half a mile, then climbed four flights of stairs, and she opened a door.

The apartment was a single room with a small bathroom and kitchen. A bare mattress and a couch were the only furnishings. Trash, clothing, and random objects of every sort were strewn across every inch of floor space.

“Sit down,” she said.

I sat on the couch, and she sat on her bed.

“I will teach you what I’ve learned about performance art, but you have to do everything exactly as I say.”

I nodded.

“First thing is, find the dishes, wash them, and put them away. Then, do the laundry...I assume you have quarters? When you’re done, get gone and come back tomorrow.”

I set to work digging through piles of mannequin arms and empty beer cans to separate the trash, dishes, and clothes into three piles. Michelle sat on her bed and watched a murder mystery on a 10-inch TV while she chain-smoked and drank Labatt’s. She fell asleep after an hour. When I was finished, I left quietly.

I returned to Cordova’s studio the next night, and she gave me another list — wash the windows, vacuum, patch the walls. She drank, smoked, and fell asleep, and I left when my tasks were completed.

After 3 months, it started to occur to me that I was learning less with each visit. I worked up my courage and confronted her with my doubts.

“While I respect your teaching methods,” I said, “my financial situation is bleak, and I don’t know how much longer I can continue to be an unpaid intern.”

Michelle took a drag from her cigarette and then put it out on the windowsill. “If you think you’re ready, come back tomorrow, and we’ll start your training.”

I left the studio excited and eager to begin my training, but also apprehensive about what the training would involve and whether I was up to it. When I arrived the next day, she gave me a list of tasks, and I politely reminded her that she had agreed to start my training. She lifted her eyebrows as if to say, “You don’t trust me?” and I got to work.

That night, while I was ironing her sheets, she appeared out of nowhere and stared at me. I continued to iron. She continued to stare. After several minutes of watching me iron, she asked, “What does it mean?”

I responded with “huh?”

“What are you ironing against? Where is the target of your ironing?”

I was stumped. She walked away, making disgusted noises. “Pointless and boring,” she said.

The following night, as I was scrubbing the bathtub, she entered and watched me.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

This time, I was a bit more prepared. “I’m scrubbing the stain of the patriarchy,” I said.

Once again, she turned and walked away. “Derivative,” was her one-word review.

Her scathing reviews continued every night. It was torture. My mopping the oppression of the poor was “naive.” My painting the windowsill of unrequited love was “insipid and shallow.” Night after night, I strove to perform to her standards, but night after night she tore me down.

One night, I got it into my head to answer her question with the title of one my favorite performance art pieces. When she confronted me as I was sweeping the cobwebs from the corners of the ceiling and asked what the cobwebs represented, I said, “Self Obliteration.”

Michelle raised her eyebrows, as if she was impressed. I smiled proudly. Then she grabbed the broom and hit me over the head. “Your study is over. I will not teach you anymore. You tried to cheat me. You cheated yourself. Get out!”

I protested that I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she just pointed at the door. I left, feeling like a hurt and confused dog. I returned and knocked on her door every day, and heard only her shouted “Go away you coward!” from inside.

I had to do something to regain her respect and trust. I could lock myself in a cage in the park. I could stand atop her building and light myself on fire. I could cover myself in glue and chia seeds. Nothing seemed right.

And then it hit me. What Michelle had been trying to teach me was to understand myself and my actions and how my actions are both personal and universal. Performance art is not just about performance — it must first be about introspection. I knew what I had to do to win back her trust.

The next day, I arrived at Washington Square Park dressed in a t-shirt with a number 7 on it and red corduroy pants. It was the closest resemblance I could find to what I wore when I first wanted to become a performance artist. I carried a lunchbox containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a thermos of water. I sat on a bench, and I reenacted my first performance art piece, “Boy Brushing his Teeth.” The front of my shirt and my entire face were covered with toothpaste. My gums bled. I got sunburned. But I kept on brushing.

That evening, Michelle Cordova approached my bench and stood watching me as if I was a stranger. After a few minutes, she raised her hands to waist level and clapped them together three times and shouted “Bravo!”

I maintained my brushing, without acknowledging her applause. Michelle put her cash box on the bench in front of me, and she climbed onto the bench beside me and assumed her pose.