|Maybe not a fair fight...|
It's the end of our night. I've had about as much performance art as I could stomach and now I'm in a little tiny room with a very large man, attempting to wrestle him for a chance at a handful of what I am promised is $500. Dollar bills are piled on top of the red safe behind him, the artist, a shirtless, musclebound man in sumo wrestler stance.
I stand around 5-foot-3 in tiny brown flats and suddenly I feel even smaller and more helpless. Just outside, I'd signed a waiver without reading it, which of course now seems foolish because I don't know if the man in front of me is allowed to touch me, tackle me, or -- I don't know -- kill me. And he's grunting like an animal, glaring at me, and looks ready to pounce. I stand in front of him on tiptoe, giggling like a small child and toying with the idea of lunging at the money. I take one step over the boundary and he lunges at me. I squeal, slip backwards, and just like that my chance at the money is over.
Performance Art is not life; waking up and disembarking from bed every morning is not a performative act. Not unless you do it with the intention of "performing." Then, it might fall under the auspices of one of the Arts' most expansive genres. It's not that simple of course, but if you spent Saturday evening touring PerformanceSW and (wo)manorial's "Inside)(Outside: A Live Performance Showcase," there was a thoughtful, albeit occasionally unoriginal, demonstration of the multifaceted output known as performance art. More »