Last night I went to a few different First Friday art shows, several of which took place inside a converted warehouse, floor to floor, room to room. It was like walking through an experimental lit journal. There was a performance piece with pudding and pickles, a miniature wall that had not been built, a down vest pinned to the wall behind plexiglass.
It was hot and moist. One of the curators asked me what kind of artist I was, and I said a writer. I thought about the perfomances of self taking place all through the thick hallways, and that repeated ritual in places like this. Who are you? What art form? Can I say I have been practicing exfoliation? Pinned to the bathroom wall, exfoliating, behind a slab of glass.