Fresno Sleezo 2024

 

"Do you know anything about what the performance is like?" 

"No," I say, and I can feel the looming trepidation that threatens to worsen at the prospect of a unknown situation. I have never witnessed a performance art piece in person; I have no prior experience to draw from to provide comfort.

Surely it can't be too different than a play, I reasoned. I approached the sign that instructed visitors to wait to be seated, and shortly after a woman in a wig and costume resembling a uniform of some kind (air hostess, perhaps?) ushered me into my seat wordlessly. She directed me to the front row. I sucked in a breath. My plan to sit in the far back of the seating arrangement failed before I could even attempt it.

 I was passed a program and a slender rectangle of slightly studier paper that immediately reminded me of a bookmark. I sat, glanced over the information I was given, and then proceeded to amuse myself on my phone. My phone vibrated and the reminder I have set up for 12pm appeared suddenly on my screen, reminding me that the performance is about to start. I hastily dug out my notebook and pen, the fact I am to take notes almost forgotten.

A man then walked by, pushing a wheelbarrow in front of him, loaded with what looked to be trash. It took me a moment to realize this was the beginning of the performance and not the artist equivalent of stagehands pushing around props. Once he had reached the front, he deposited all the odd items onto the ground. Loudly, I might add, as the noise of various materials being unceremoniously dumped in the middle of a silent gallery isn't subtle. The man left with the wheelbarrow, and a woman then entered.

The woman sifted through the trash with interest. This continued for a moment, before she set aside a poster advertising the event, then a table, which was then positioned to her liking. She also set up a folding chair with a removable canvas backing, which was then placed where it belonged once unfolded and standing.

She moved on to fabric, using her arm and nose to measure it into sections, then cut. I inwardly cringe at the sight. The fabric was likely cheap polyester, though it is too far away for me to tell if the base is composed of tulle, mesh, or sheer chiffon. It was dotted with glittery polka dots that are nothing but a nuisance to clean up after, and I knew this annoyance well as I worked with its ilk when I worked at a fabric store. I could already see pieces of glitter shining on the floor and I was glad I was not the one who had to clean it up this time. The fabric was stuck onto the wall.

Items are set on the table, consisting of toy guns, plastic darts, a cup, and a water bottle. The scattered material on the ground is sorted. A drill gun was plucked from the mess and plugged in to drill holes into a lunch tray. The tray was then attached to wires and placed against the table. After the woman left, the man returned. 

He drilled another lunch tray, attached it to wires, and then sat. Water was poured into the shallow cup, and one of the toy dart guns was loaded. The tips were all a bright safety orange, indicating their harmless status. He was then rejoined by the woman, and the two fiddle with the wired lunch tray as it dangled from her neck. I note that she is "chained" to the wall by dainty strands of chain, far too weak to provide any sort of restraint. After the pair concluded regarding the tray, the man returned to his seat and fired a dart at her. It missed its mark and bounced onto the floor. He reloaded and tried again, and this time, the dart suctioned itself to the tray. This process was repeated. Sometimes, the gun jammed. At various points, the man moved onto a larger toy gun. He ended the target practice with the largest dart guns on the table. When he began to remove the tray from the woman's neck, all I could think about was his improper form when he handled the "guns." Try that with a real gun, and your target will remain unscathed while you walk away with an aching wrist courtesy of the recoil. 

The woman was left alone. The chains are removed, and her happiness is dramatically conveyed through exaggerated movements and a large smile. The darts are picked from the floor, and as she leaves, I notice she is wearing tap shoes. The man promptly returned to the set and cleaned up the items by returning them to the wheelbarrow. The fabric remained draped across the wall, ignored. 

The performers returned to take a bow. The show was over. I clapped while my mind attempted to conjure meaning from the performance. Luckily, Vicki Hall was there to explain her work.

Hall explained her original performance, and explained that each of her work was done exclusive to a certain setting, unlikely to be recreated for other audiences. She also explained the differing purposes of the performance. Her original performance, done in 1970 at UCLA, was done in protest to the graduate exhibition policy. Some things were changed, she noted, to match the needs of the cast or the purpose of the show. Heather, the woman who performed at this Sac Sate performance, did not want to be as exposed as Hall was during the original performance. The costume was changed and drew inspiration from a vintage circus hippo trainer. Distantly, I wonder where the tap shoes came from. 

Another change that was explained was the addition of trash sorting. Hall explained this was done to represent the creative process. The trash was sorted to provide a visual of the organization, selection, and processing involved in creating an artwork. I asked then if the fabric/drapery was significant of anything, as it was left on the walls. She explained that it's a material, and artists are very tactile people. The material and interaction of the materials is also a part of the creative process. "Artists are material freaks," she concluded. I pondered this and came to an additional conclusion, which I will elaborate on shortly.

Vicki Hall explained that her work was meant to convey humor, despite its contents, and the message of the performance always changed. She recalled that Judy Chicago reacted to the performance in a way typical of 1970s feminist art and deemed its message a comment on male/female violence. It was a protest, Hall pointed out once more, but that was typical of the thinking of the time. I can see the perspective and understand where Chicago was coming from. However, I tire of the way some feminist art defines itself in relation to men. I understand the patriarchy is inescapable, and people do not live in a vacuum, but I think I would have been miffed if the protest piece I performed with my bare body would have been immediately attributed to my relationship with men. Hall stated she performed out of anger and frustration and was a response to the university's actions. Still, this display of rage led her to become a feminist performance artist, and Hall made her mark in feminist art history.

Something caught my attention when Hall discussed the changing message and how this performance differed from the original. Hall stated that the woman in the performance, Heather, was always in charge; she was the person who held the power in the relationship with the male performer, John. My eyes immediately flew to the fabric draped behind the people on stage. Heather was the one who stuck it into the nails that lined the wall. She also picked out the fabric, cut it, and then decided how it would look on that wall. John had collected nearly all the items he had dumped onto the ground, save for the fabric. This came across as another display of power on Heather's part. What that display of power means specifically is uncertain and something I struggle to find words for. All I know is that she had decorated the set, guided John on how to treat her during the performance, and this one thing remained when all was cleared away.

Vicki Hall continued to answer questions, joined by Heather and John. My eyes remained on the glittery cloth that hung from the wall.