Transgression, or "Baby did a bad, bad thing," or did he?

Michelangelo_SistineGarden

I went to an art exibit tonight as part of Richmond's First Friday artwalk.  I was at the 1708 Gallery, I walked in, and there were these dimly lit photographs on the wall.  Upon entry, we were cautioned that there were pieces on the floor, art pieces, further in.  The photographs were really interesting, portraits of people with their eyes closed, these small prints, 3 x 3 inches, and the lighting made them barely visible, so that you had to get up close, scrutinize to barely see them, peering into their faces.  After a while, you realized the lights were slowly increasing in brightness, so that the portrait, over 30 seconds, slowly came into "focus" as more light was thrown upon it, but even then, very faint, very distant.  It left me with the impression of the difficulty in really "seeing" people, the difficulty in accurately perceiving others, seeing them as they are, and the work involved in getting a clear picture of someone.

Further in, there was a series of portraits done over what looked like beds of sand.  These were larger, maybe 24" x 36" vertically, and similar shots, people with their eyes closed, in meditation or repose.  It looked like the images had been created through some kind of stencil or screen printing apparatus.  You could see a tiny "dot matrix" pattern in the images, and it had the crispness of a mechanically produced image.  The interesting thing was that each sand portrait had a small dish in front of it, filled with a variety of fluids or solids.  Each print seemed to have a different substance in front of it.  One of the first prints had been "defaced".  The dish had been bumped or spilled, and water had splashed onto the sand in the extreme lower left.  Other pieces had been trod upon, their edges were smudged by foot prints, or blurred slightly by being brushed.  I should also note that the sand beds were about 3 inches deep, with a crisp bevelled edge on each side, about 2 inches wide.

So, I'm taking in the images.  Also, they have no borders around them, no rope barriers, no caution signs, creating a fairly high risk of the beds being disturbed.  I'm looking at the pictures, and really struck by the small dishes in front of them, dare I say provoked?  I'm thinking "why did the artist include these dishes in front of the paintings?"  For a work already so fragile, it seems provokative to say the least, to include these small items in the front.  I start to wonder if the artist wants people to "interact" with the work by sprinkling the materials across the sand. 

At first blush, this seems ludicrous to me, but as I move on to pieces 2, 3 and 4 among the ten, I'm getting a stronger and stronger impression of invitation in the structure of the pieces.  This starts to make me nervous.  What if I'm wrong, what if I'm misinterpreting, how horrible would that be?  The pieces are priced at $5,000 each, specified that they would be sold in whatever condition they are in after the show, or something to that affect.  

I start to feel kind of sick to my stomach with dread.  This sense of excitement at the possibility of immersion, interacting with the art at such a destructive level.  It seems exciting, such a novel idea of participation, but with it this sense of horror at the possibility of misunderstanding the situation.  I purpose to leave well enough alone, leave without disturbing the images.  We come to the fifth piece, and a gallery aide is talking with two guests about the fragility of the art, saying it is the artist's intention they be disturbed within the process of display.  I had already expressed my uncertainty to a friend, and she noted this seemed to be confirmation of my impression.  We look at #5, and still I don't dare to disturb it in front of these three strangers.

I move on to numbers 6 and 7, appreciating their fine application.  I can see there are only three pieces left.  I stop in front of number 8, taking it in, but thoroughly distracted by my inner tension at this point.  I start to be pissed off at the artist, for the ambiguity they have left in the gallery space, and I feel like I am being screwed with, like this whole thing is a sociology experiment in which I've become an unwilling participant.  I imagine leaving the gallery without trying the debris, and it kind of sickens me, to be this close to trying something this dynamic, when the environment seems to be inviting it.  To be this close and not do it seems terribly cowardly, like being attracted to a pretty girl, and not saying anything, and going home the rest of the night, wondering what could have happened differently.

I'm looking at number 8, and I decide, "screw it, this is exactly what the artist wanted, and they are just waiting to see if people will be willing to transgress social protocol, and actually interact with the artwork, break this aesthetic taboo against "destroying" someone else's work."  I reach down and dip two fingers into what feels like vegetable oil, lift it up and start drizzling it over the lower right hand corner of the piece, crossing between the white space and the shoulder/arm of the subject.  Immediately, white splotches begin appearing where the oil is dropping interacting with the sand.  I remain over the painting, letting all the oil drip off my fingertips, and working a general diagonal pattern along the intersect between image and background.  I hear someone around me murmer, "oh, so that's what we're supposed to do with it."  Five to eight people gather around watching me, and I keep my head down, nervous about making eye contact.  The last oil drips off, and I'm left standing over the image, looking at the changes I've made to the piece.  The texture is definitely disrupted, what had been smooth and uniform has now become pockmarked and splotched in the lower right quadrant.  I still feel sick with worry, fear of discovery or rebuke. 

I stand over the piece for a few moments, then move on to number 9.  This is a photo of an older woman, in repose like the others.  For this one, I choose not to disturb it, seeing what it feels like to leave one image undisturbed where I disrupted the other one.  My fingers are still stained with oil, slick and glossy.  I move on to the tenth piece, now kind of exhilarated at the possibility within this show, this feeling of transgression, like the A-ha video, passing into the work, interacting with it personally.  It feels deeply wrong, but at the same time, I'm convincing myself with all the cues I'd received from the display.  I see the tenth piece, and want to experience one more interaction.  I reach down, it's honey this time, my already oil slicked hands pass into the honey, struggling to gain purchase, most of the honey slips off, but I get some, start dripping it over the lower right quadrant on this image again.  It splotches down, gathering the sand to itself, glimpses of white show behind the lumps gathered around the honey.  I think to create a diagonal intersection this time, where the last movement was parallel.  I dip down into the honey for a bit more, complete my transept into the negative white space, observe my work. 

At that point, I become curious as to what substance the sand is.  Like a Latin American kingpin, I lick my pinkie, dip it into the edge of the bed, and bring it to my mouth: it's salt.  At that moment an urgent voice speaks over me, "Please don't do that!"  I stand up to see a gallery director looking me urgently in the face, "That's not what those are for.  Please don't disturb the pieces."  I'm thoroughly confused, flustered, telling him about the different dishes of materials.  He tells me those represent "different elements," but are not intended to be interspersed with the portraits.

I must have a look of consternation and rage on my face, because he asks me "Are you alright with that? [leaving the pieces undisturbed]...because you don't look alright with that."  I didn't realize how hostile my expression was.  I start to apologize to him.  He says, "These pieces cost $5,000."  Implicitly suggesting, 'why are you doing this?'  After a pause I start to apologize, he, uncomfortable, says "that's alright, just please don't disturb them," and moves a few steps away. 

Initially after leaving the gallery--I'm not asked to leave, but feeling uncomfortable, and having seen all the pieces, we leave--initially after leaving, I feel incredibly guilty.  The street is crowded, and I feel like word has already spread of what I did, and that every look is condemning.  I think about my glistening right hand, now covered with oil and honey, realizing short of a handwashing, there is no way to get this viscous material off my hand.  I'm shocked, silenced, I feel like the biggest rube, the most uncouth, backwater, troglodytic neanderthal, I feel like I've ruined the show, scandalized the gallery, crushed the artist, and made a fool of my friends. 

I feel hot flashes of anger toward the gallery, for leaving the setting ambiguous, for not making the context more clear, and I feel crushing anger toward the artist, still in one sense convinced that my read of the situation was correct, despite the docent's rebuke.  Above all, I feel this sense of transgression, of something irreversible that I have done, the oil and honey a persistent reminder of that.  At the same time, I feel this electric adrenaline, this sense of having done something of consequence, of having pressed through a barrier that would have repelled other more timid people, and have entered this exclusive sphere of influence, filled with the actors, the agents of change, bold men and women.  I feel this incredible sense of consequence, and suddenly the thought of every other piece of art I have observed without altering seems pedestrian and tame. 

I go into the next gallery, and I want to smear my oily hand across those canvasses as well, I want to leave my mark on every gallery we visit that night, and I find myself having to actively restrain myself from reaching out and touching the canvasses.  I'm horrified at myself, violator of the sacred trust between artist and public, the fundamental sense of respect a viewer gives a piece of artwork by leaving it unmolested.  I feel like the most profane of men, an egomaniac.  I think of the Mona Lisa, behind plexiglass, of slashed canvasses, Nazi book burnings, and of crazy men, mentally disturbed, taking a hammer to the Pieta.  I realize with dismay that I now may be among their number as well, and my hand and my face burn in shame.  I make eye contact with a few people, and everyone seems to know, they see right through me, they must have been there, seen me do it.  Everyone on the street must be able to understand what happened, understand the residue on my hand, what it means.

Still shaken, I purpose to write the gallery upon returning home, apologize profusely for my actions, thereby leaving my information for any browbeating or legal action they or the artist wants to inflict upon me, to turn myself in, make my self known to the appropriate authorities in this matter.  We walk on to the next gallery, and I find myself defending my actions with dismay to my friends.  They generously side with me, agreeing with my perception of events, agreeing it was ambiguous, or even designed for such an occurance.  Still, they have only thought those thoughts, while I have the slick hand, the circumstantial evidence.  Oddly, I'm reluctant to wash my hand clean, it feels like both penance and trophy.

Later on in the night, we see some friends who visited 1708 after hearing my story.  They report that there is no wailing and rending of garments taking place, that in fact, they observe the artist, present on the scene, talking about the exhibit.  While he is speaking, someone at a piece nearby picks up grains of red material from the dish, sprinkles it across the image.  The artist is asked if this disturbs him, and he seemingly expresses feigned dismay at the inevitability of decay.  The recounter supports my reading of the artist's intent, and I feel encouraged.  Heading home, I scratch my plans to write the gallery, now more convinced that my read was the accurate one.

Postscript: the artist's name was Young Kim, and the show entitled "Salt and Earth."