On Edge: Performance at the End of the Twentieth Century

In Extremis

Roped

A Saga of Art in Everyday Life

Even as they came to the window to throw me a key, it was Art. Linda Montano and Tehching Hsieh have engaged in living every moment as Art since last July 4 when they were tied together at the waist with an eight-foot rope, declaring then that they would neither take the rope off nor touch each other for one year. When one of them had to get something, they both went to that something. When one went to the bathroom, they both were in the bathroom. When I saw Tehching at the window, I knew that Linda had to be there too. They both answered the door, the rope catching most of my attention. It was grayish, freakish, with a padlock at each waist. This July 4, 1984, at 6 P.M. in a ceremony suitably undramatic, the witnesses who hammered those locks onto the ropes last year will testify that they haven’t been tampered with. Then Montano and Hsieh will each cut the rope at their waists to end Art/Life One Year Performance 1983–84.

It’s a piece no one’s watched but in bits, with the performers often hiding from their audience, since they never set out to be spectacles of themselves. They have worked to keep their lives noneventful, avoiding those colorful interactions that would interest a reporter, confining their activities on most days to Chinatown and their Tribeca neighborhood where people are used to seeing them. Daily life is as simple as Hsieh’s Hudson Street loft where they’ve been living—two captain’s beds at one end near the windows, two work tables down at the other.

They go out on jobs together. They must. They aren’t funded. Often they work for other artists or art groups—to hang a show, put up a wall, do a mailing list, clean a loft, give a lecture. They split the money. Boredom, yes, it’s just part of the piece. On a day without a job they may get up late, Montano often rising before Hsieh and exercising between the beds till he wakes. They take out the dog, they may run, they have tea, watch a lot of TV, spend hours at the work tables sitting back to back. For pleasure, they see movies and ride their bikes around, one following behind the other. It’s like Life, only harder. We can’t ask too much of each other, says Montano.

Linda Montano and Tehching Hsieh at home. (Photograph by Sylvia Plachy © 1993.)

They rehearsed the piece for a week to determine the length and size of rope, how to tie it, how to make it comfortable at night, etc. Once during that week they had to cut themselves out of the rope when it began to shrink around them in a Chinese restaurant; they had showered before dinner. They would need a preshrunk rope. Then, last July 4, they both shaved their heads and began the piece. Hair length would measure the passage of time.

They have had difficulty seeing old friends and keeping old habits. Both must agree to do something before they can do it. On jobs, they found they had totally different work styles. Committed together to this arduous performance, they found they didn’t agree on what it meant to be doing it.

I told them that when I pictured myself in the ropes, it felt like strangling in total dependency and lack of privacy.

Tehching said my reaction was just personal. Just emotional. Here, we were talking about Art.

Linda said Tehching thought the performance was subsumed by the Art. But she was interested in issues like claustrophobia, and ego and power relationships—Life issues. They were as important as Art.

No, Tehching said, that was too personal. The piece was not about him with Linda. It was about all people.

See, Linda said, this is the way the man traditionally talks about his work. Most women traditionally talk about their personal feelings while the man says, I am everybody.

Tehching said he hadn’t finished. He wanted to say the piece was about individuals, all human beings. He had wanted to do the piece with a woman because he liked to spend time with women. But it didn’t matter if it was two men or two women or a man and woman tied together. Didn’t matter if they were husband/wife or total strangers before it started, or if they planned to ever see each other once it ended. These things were personal and not important.

Linda said the piece was more than just a visible work of Art. It was a chance for the mind to practice paying attention, a way to stay in the moment. If they didn’t do that, they had accidents. One would get into an elevator, the other wouldn’t, and the door would close.

One or the other wears a Walkman at all times to record whatever they say. She sees this as a way to be conscious that she’s talking. He says it symbolizes communication, that they’re conceptual art tapes. (Indeed, they will never be listened to.)

Montano thinks of art as ascetic training. Hsieh thinks his art is often misunderstood to be ascetic training.

This is his fourth year-long performance. In 1978–79 he lived in an eight-by-nine-by-twelve foot cage in his loft, without speaking, reading, watching TV, etc. In 1980–81, he punched a time clock every hour on the hour every day, every night. In 1981–82, he lived on the street, never entering a building, subway, tent, or other shelter. Hsieh communicates in English with a limited but direct vocabulary about what motivates him. Though he painted in Taiwan, he says he’s working now from his experience of this country and what he does is New York Art.

Montano shares his capacity for self-discipline and his attraction to ordeals. An ex-nun, her performances have included drumming six hours a day for six days, handcuffing herself to another artist for three days, and living in a sealed room for five days as five different people she found in her personality. Over a fifteen-year career, she has lived in galleries for days at a time, calling it Art. She has lived in the desert for ten days, calling it Art. She has danced blindfolded in a trance, done astral travel events and once, dressed as a nun, danced, screamed, and heard confessions.

Montano’s attraction to Hsieh’s work led her to call him, just as he had conceived of the rope piece and was looking for someone to collaborate with. They had never met before. We feel strong to do work together, says Hsieh. When we’re feeling good, we’re like soul-mates, says Montano.

But they do not touch. As Hsieh says, the piece is not about couple. Montano says the fact that they’re male/female can make them look like a couple, but the fact that they’re different races, different ages (he’s thirty-three, she’s forty-two), and different sizes throws everything into some strange balance.

Hsieh talks of how they’re married to Art, that they are sacrificing sex, not denying it. They could, in theory, have sex with other people, but, says Hsieh, that would just be a way to try escaping the piece. And, says Montano, it would be kinky, an impossible thing to do to someone else. She says it’s a vacation not to have the choice, that not having sex is as interesting as having it, and allows her to see where else she can relate from on the astral or imaginative or visual level.

They ate and dreamt a lot when the piece began, says Montano, because we were doing something very difficult and repressive. Food was our only pleasure and dreaming was the way the mind processed the new information and brought some ease. Dreaming was the one privacy, Hsieh said, and for him food was important because while living on the street last year, he was never able to eat well.

Montano made a sound, barely audible, when the Walkman ran out of tape, and they both got up to get a new one. She said they were communicating with sounds now—it’s regressed in a beautiful way—for they had started with talking and yanking the rope, then moved to gestures, now to noises. They were down to about an hour of talking a day.

By the time the piece ends, they will have something like seven hundred of the ninety-minute tapes, each dated on the red and white label that reads: TALKING. If they have a show of their documentation, the tapes will be displayed along with the photographs they’ve made, one-a-day, since the performance began. Most show them engaged in some daily activity. For a few days—days when they were fighting or thought of nothing to photograph—there are only gray green blanks. On several days they photographed the word FIGHT.

Eighty percent of the year was an incredible struggle, says Montano.

A lot of ego issues to struggle about, says Hsieh.

They spent most of the winter in the loft, taking away each other’s permission. They simply said NO to anything the other one wanted to do outside of the jobs they had to do for money. At one point, the fight went on for three weeks, till they finally just quit, they said, from boredom. In the spring it began to get more physical, pushing and pulling on the rope without touching each other, until Montano insisted they get help from friends. Hsieh still insists this wasn’t necessary, because if they fought, it was just part of the piece. They never considered divorce, since, as Hsieh says, they are not like a marriage, more like a business. Montano says, It’s being done for Art, so the emotions are withstood, no matter what they are.

Eight days before the piece was to end, I met them to go to the park and sensed that they were fighting. They didn’t say so, but it was in the air. They were straining at each other, not walking easily—one would start off before the other had noticed, and pull. Weeks earlier, Linda had described how the piece accentuated the negative and brought it up to the rim of Art … the frustration, the claustrophobia, the lack of privacy … to surrender to the chosen and to call it Art—I’ve always had that as an ideal.

Tehching said the cage piece had been easier. He could focus on Art. This was too much Life. Once, in a better mood, he had said there was little difference for him between these pieces: Linda was his cage. Now, as we sat on the grass, he said Linda was his mirror, and he could see his weakness part. He couldn’t hide. It was much struggle.

After a year of constant exposure to each other, they’re obviously tuned in on a nonverbal level. On a day when we were going out for dinner, I’d been sitting with them at the kitchen table when suddenly they were both walking around getting things, putting chairs on the beds to keep the dog off, and I began to figure out that we were leaving now. They hadn’t said a word.

This would be my chance to see how people reacted to them on the street. We stood on the sidewalk discussing restaurants. Tehching asked if Chinese food would be okay. Then I realized I’d already forgotten that they were wearing a rope. As we crossed West Broadway, a woman approached and said, I must ask why I always see you attached. Linda answered, It’s an experiment. That’s become their standard response to the question, Linda said, because calling it Art plays with that definition too much for a lot of people and then they get angry. It may also play with their definition of Life.

I was most surprised by the Oblivious Ones who passed us. And by the Frightened Ones, with the seen-a-ghost look about them. The Perplexed Ones, I expected. In Philadelphia, where they’d gone to teach a performance art class, they found it much more difficult and abrasive to be public. In New York the heightened level of strangeness absorbs some of the attention they don’t want. On a recent visit to Area, people stared at them, Linda thought, not because of the rope but because they weren’t dressed right.

I asked if we could visit the art world together sometime. No, they mostly avoided those places. Just recently in Soho, they could hear everyone talking about them as they walked down the street, snatches of tied together for one year floating by, and it made them feel like they were giving a show. They didn’t want to give a show. Too sensationalize, Hsieh says. They’ve turned down That’s Incredible, Entertainment Tonight, and Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

Dinner and a kung fu movie was more like what they normally did. The ushers at the kung fu theater looked worried when they saw us, while I was forgetting more and more that the rope existed. I made myself look at it and thought, God, they have guts to walk down the street like this. We watched something astonishing whose title Hsieh couldn’t translate: a grandmother fighting five villains, men jumping magic distances, girls twirling swords, pairs and groups testing each other to the death. The ritualized fighting looked as powerful, perfect, and hard to choreograph as a wave crashing off a rock. Then we sat through the next movie on the bill, Boat People, without subtitles. I never did figure out what was going on, but watching it gave me a chance to contemplate the fact that I had chosen this, and that sitting there was Art.

July 1984

Before and After Science

The body mounted a platform. Eighteen fish hooks pierced the back of his naked frame. He positioned himself face down below a pulley with eighteen rings. Calmly he instructed two assistants to connect the hooks and pulley with the cord. Thirty or so spectators around the platform were tiptoe-silent. The body suddenly gasped with pain. No worse than usual, he winced. I just keep forgetting how bad it is.

He began instructing his assistants about removing the platform from below so he’d be left hanging by the hooks, his skin stretching and causing him excruciating pain. He was prepared for that. As he’d written about an earlier piece, Stretched skin is a manifestation of the gravitational pull.… It is proof of the body’s unnatural position in space. Once the pulley carried him out the window, he would be demonstrating this to everyone out on East 11th Street between Avenues B and C.

He would be amplifying the obsolescence of the body out there, the need for it to burst from its biological, cultural and planetary containment in the post-evolutionary age. With more than twenty other suspension events behind him, this would be the most public one he’d ever tried. So one more precaution had to be taken: his assistants would lock the building against the possibility of police intervention. We were asked to leave, and I was the first one out. Hadn’t wanted a close-up of that horror show of stretched skin—I mean the gravitational landscape—anyway.

Stelarc (born Stelios Arcadiou) would not have understood that. The body doesn’t respond emotionally to his own self-mutilation. Why should others? He thinks people misunderstand him. They obsess about the hooks. They ask if he’s a masochist. They think he has some spiritual goal. They are all wrong. I am not interested in human states or attitudes or perversions. I am concerned with cosmic, superhuman, extraterrestrial manifestation.

Stelarc lectured on evolution three days before Street Suspension. He told 40 of us sitting in the sawdust of a raw loft lit with three bare bulbs that we are on the threshold of space. But we’re biologically ill-equipped. It’s time to consciously design a pan-planetary physiology. Stelarc thinks the artist can become an evolutionary guide. To illustrate this, he demonstrated his third hand, a prosthetic device on his right arm. He opened and closed its fist by contracting his rectus abdominus muscles. Electrodes on his skin connected these muscles to the mechanism. Some day, he added, it would be nice to have them surgically implanted.

He showed slides of other work, fierce projects described quickly and modestly, most of them done in Australia where he grew up or Japan where he now lives. (He is Greek.) The first slide—the inside of his stomach—had been made by swallowing a gastro TV camera, during a visual/acoustic probe of his own organs. Other early work: lying on pointed stakes, lying still for ten days while a huge steel plate hovered over him. Many slides of stretched skin suspensions: the body suspended horizontally through a six-story elevator shaft by the insertion of eighteen hooks into the skin.

It reassures me to see that the body, as he calls himself when discussing the work, stands apparently undamaged in front of the room. He describes a piece for body and ten telephone poles, all suspended from a gallery ceiling and then spun over twelve tons of rock on the floor. Just two weeks before this lecture, the body’d been suspended in a condemned building in Los Angeles and swung like a pendulum. A tree suspension near Canberra had attracted 350–400 spectators. Stelarc told us he had asked them to leave after fifteen minutes so he could experience the symbiotic relationship of the body and the tree without being distracted. They drove away in their cars. It must have been beautiful to drive off leaving the body there.

Someone in the audience asked if he was motivated by pain. Stelarc laughed. He’d read in an essay about his work that all performance art is masochistic but he didn’t agree. He said women did not give birth in order to experience pain, and he did not make art in order to experience pain. Everything beautiful occurs when the body is suspended.

Then Stelarc showed us a videotape of Trajectory, an event in which the body was connected sideways to a pulley that slid down 120 feet of cable in twelve seconds. Wouldn’t movement put more stress on the hooks? I glanced at the monitor where the body had a drawn, pinched look on its face which I associate with pain. Someone asked Stelarc why he’d gone from ropes and harnesses to using hooks. Because of the physicality, he told her. And it was less visually cluttered. Meanwhile, the body on the monitor had taken off down the cable and was applauded. Stelarc smiled. That one felt so good, we did it three times.

Later, he elaborated: It felt good, yeah. The idea of the body as this projectile propelled by desire to transcend its evolutionary limitations. The idea of the body attaining planetary escape velocity.… He asked somewhat sheepishly if I could mention his book, Obsolete Body/Suspensions, in my article. It wasn’t selling well, and he didn’t know why. Apparently he hadn’t considered that hooks stretching skin out like rubber might not appeal to many people. But perhaps I was just not evolved enough if what I noticed was not the gravitational landscape but the body in distress.

We’d gone to a restaurant near MO David Gallery, which was sponsoring the event. Stelarc was agreeable, polite, sort of a regular guy from Yokohama, married, two kids, teaches art and sociology. Sitting there telling me how he amplifies the sound of his blood flow by constricting an artery, then relaxing and opening the artery and the blood rushes out …

I hadn’t expected to feel nauseous. There weren’t any hooks in him. He was perfectly pleasant. He was telling me about sewing his lips and eyelids shut, then having two hooks inserted in the skin of his back and connected by cable to the wall of a gallery for one week. And we’d only started. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands.

During a suspension, he told me, the body was always at the threshold of catastrophe. At times the body had been on the verge of passing out. At times the body had hallucinated. During a seaside suspension, facing sideways over the incoming tide, he’d begun to feel that the surface of the sea was an extension of his skin stretching out to the horizon then back, a membrane that began pulsating and finally bursting in the form of waves.

I asked if he called himself the body to dissociate himself from the experience. Was that a help in doing something so stressful? He said no. If I referred to myself all the time it would personalize the experience too much. It’s not important that it’s me. It’s important that a physical body suspended in space has these experiences.

Aren’t you ever afraid? I asked. Well, he said, in terms of our evolutionary development, reflective thinking is essentially a positive thing. But when thought is always reflective, it leads to inactivity. Sometimes you have to switch your mind off. You set up a situation. Then you do it.

Stelarc told me he did nothing special to prepare himself on the day of an event, just kept busy. When I arrived on the day of Street Suspension—Saturday, July 21—he was chatting with friends while someone shaved his back. Puncture wounds from the Los Angeles event were still visible on the front of his body. Why the shave? I asked. He said there would be bandages back there later. And if they’re pulled up from hair, they hurt.

At the front of the space, the assistants finished mounting the pulley. On a table nearby: a bowl full of sterilized hooks, two bottles of rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, gauze, somebody’s half-drunk beer. I hope it rains, said Stelarc. He’d never worked in the rain before.

The insertions would take about half an hour. As more people crowded up the stairs, Stelarc showed two men what to do with the hooks. He had made a drawing for them to follow, like an acupuncture diagram with hooks instead of needle points. They would be avoiding any major blood vessels or nerve endings, inserting into skin instead of muscle to minimize bleeding. One would pinch the skin up. The other would insert. He’d had trouble finding assistants, but finally recruited two sympathetic performance artists. Start with the elbows, he told them. Go through quickly … pinch the skin more tightly … faster … get it symmetrical … grab more flesh.… Across the street I could see a little girl in Mouska-ears sitting on the windowsill with her Dad.

It was 7:08 P.M. when Stelarc emerged from the window of the building. A shout went up from the street, from the art people who were expecting him and the neighborhood people who weren’t. Holy Shit! THAT GUY’S FUCKIN’ CRAZY! A woman covered her eyes. Soon the landscape of stretched skin stopped over the middle of East 11th Street. A Hell’s Angel stopped his bike and parked. A woman said she didn’t know what the world was coming to. Motorists craned through windows. A man called hawse, yelled one. Probably two hundred people milled below, photographers and children in about equal number. And then, at 7:13 P.M., the police were there too, six of them standing on Avenue B trying to figure out what to do. They would clear the street. Move back! Move back! They’d get the traffic (three cars) flowing. Then they’d yell up to the assistants on the fire escape. Pull him in!

The landscape of stretched skin over East 11th Street. (Photo by Andy Freeberg.)

Stelarc disappeared back through the window at 7:18 P.M. He’d gotten ten minutes out there. He’d hoped for fifteen.

The officer-in-charge tried to enter the building, but found the door locked. A shout came from the crowd: Officer, this man is a world-famous artist!

GIM-me a BREAK!

A filmmaker pointed his camera at the cop. You don’t want to interfere with someone’s freedom of expression?

Sure I do!

The six cops retreated, then regrouped in a more conciliatory mood. Look, I just want to talk to the guy, the officer-in-charge insisted. Why couldn’t he do this inside? Let’s be sensible.

Mike Osterhout, the director of MO David Gallery, appeared. I could hear the top cop saying, I won’t arrest him, I promise. I just hafta give him a summons. That’ll satisfy the city.

Finally, two cops were admitted and found Stelarc lying face down on a piece of plywood with white bandages over his wounds. They charged him with disorderly conduct.

What a circus! he sighed. I would’ve loved to have seen it from the street. Could you see the skin coming up?

The event had been so different from what he expected. How? I asked.

The expansive feeling of the space. People in their cuboid rooms. The interaction of all the people below, then the police clearing a path so I could see traffic flowing. That was great. And, probably the most beautiful thing, the naive reactions of the people on the street. There’s an innocence about it.

A friend asked if he shouldn’t be resting. Theoretically I should be lying down. But I’m hungry. Let’s get dinner. By now, 11th Street was empty, except for a woman who must have heard about the event. Was she looking for evolutionary synthesis? Or the potential for planetary escape velocity? Apparently not. She rushed by Stelarc, hardly noticed him, and called out, Where’s that naked man?

July 1984

This Is Only a Test

The image most emblematic of seventies body art has the rough panicky blur of a news photo. Faces are unrecognizable. So is the rifle. And the artist’s description of the action is a simple dispassionate observation: At 7:45 P.M., I was shot in the left arm by a friend.… Chris Burden took his risks in the manner of a scientist—one who decides that he must test a new serum on himself alone, who later declares that he always knew it would work. When he stopped performing, Burden began to exhibit machines and war toys and installations. The project, however, had remained the same:to demythologize certain choices, to deromanticize certain symbols, to get real.

He says he had himself shot so he’d know what it felt like, though he didn’t mean the physical pain so much as getting ready to stand there. There could be nothing theoretical or metaphoric in knowing that the gun was loaded, that the trigger would be pulled. Burden’s performances created a context in which it was possible, though not probable, that he would die. That context itself was the art. In Prelude to 220, or 110 (1971), for example, he had his wrists, neck, and legs bolted to a concrete gallery floor with copper bands. Nearby sat two buckets of water with live 110-volt lines submerged in them. Had any visitor chosen to spill the water, Burden would have been electrocuted. Typically, he was forcing himself, the audience, and the sponsoring institution to face an elemental and harrowing reality. So too, in the photodocumentation of Shoot (1971), we can read the trace of a shudder.

Indeed, the culture seems to have shuddered through some crisis of the body then, beginning in the late sixties. Or was it some crisis in authenticity? Or some trauma surrounding the object’s dematerialization? Analyzing the emergence and disappearance of body art is beyond the scope of this article. But the fact remains that during the seventies in particular, some artists risked injury and death in a manner unprecedented in the history of art. For example, there was Gina Pane climbing a ladder with cutting edges—barefoot (Escalade sanglante [Bloody climb], 1971); Dennis Oppenheim standing in a circle five feet in diameter while someone threw rocks at him from above (Rocked Circle-Fear, 1971); Marina Abramovic and Ulay running naked and repeatedly colliding at top speed (1975); Linda Montano inserting acupuncture needles around her eyes (Mitchell’s Death, 1978). And Burden was no doubt the most notorious of them all, at least in America. His risks were more dramatic than the others, but also more calculated.

Often, his disturbing actions were misread as exercises in masochism or as way stations along some spiritual path. Hadn’t he crawled nearly naked through broken glass (Through the Night Softly, 1973), pushed two live wires into his chest (Doorway to Heaven, 1973), had himself crucified on top of a Volkswagen (Trans-Fixed, 1974)? But he denies any interest in either pain or transcendence. As he explained it in 1975, When I use pain or fear in a work, it seems to energize the situation.¹ That situation was the relationship between him and the audience. It was their fear and distress as much as his that energized the situation. Burden’s work examines physical phenomena in their natural context, the land of human error. And Prelude wasn’t about electricity’s potential to kill, but the audience’s. It wasn’t a symbol, but a real catastrophe waiting to happen. Through his body, Burden (who studied a good deal of physics in college) could investigate an energy that science can’t measure.

When he did White Light/White Heat (1975), remaining out of sight on a platform at the Ronald Feldman gallery for twenty-two days, his fantasy (as he put it) was that the gallery would not reveal his presence, but that people would somehow sense it when they entered the room. White Light was Burden’s refinement of an earlier experiment in inertia, Bed Piece (1972), in which he’d remained in bed in a gallery for twenty-two days, visible to all, but communicating with no one. As he recalled it in 1975: "In Bed Piece it was like I was this repulsive magnet. People would come up to about fifteen feet from the bed and you could really feel it. There was an energy, a real electricity going on."² He’d become a generator, and normal human interaction had ceased.

Before he began performing, and while still an M. F. A. student at the University of California, Irvine, Burden made interactive sculpture. Even then, he wanted audiences to do something. But it frustrated him when people failed to understand that his objects were not the art; the interaction was. For his M. F. A. thesis in 1971, he decided to circumvent the problem by using a two-by-two-by-three-foot locker already present in the exhibition space—and his own body. For that first performance, Five Day Locker Piece, he just expected to curl up and endure for five consecutive days. But to his surprise, people he didn’t even know came unbidden to sit in front of the locker, to tell him their problems and the stories of their lives. Was the appeal merely his status as captive audience? Or is it that artists who break taboos and take on such ordeals are perceived as having special powers? Certainly, those who came were projecting something onto him. And Burden’s been extremely conscious of audience behavior ever since.

Burden’s work exposes real power struggles—with real consequences—between performer and audience, or artist and art world, or citizen and government. Traditionally, an audience wants to sit passively and expects the performer to take command; they will attack if the performer doesn’t. Burden began to play with this dynamic—traditional theater’s unarticulated mise-en-scène. In Shout Piece (1971), done soon after Five Day Locker Piece, he sat on a brightly lit platform, face painted red, voice amplified, ordering the people who entered the gallery to get the fuck out—which most did, immediately. His third performance was Prelude to 220, or 110, in which he became the passive one, his life depending quite literally on the behavior of each gallery visitor. While masochism was not the point in Burden’s work, there was often a dynamic of dominance and submission. And probably because dominating (as in Shout Piece) simply drives an audience away, Burden usually chose to submit, making their decisions much tougher. In La Chiaraficazione (1975), he sealed off a small room with particle board at the Alessandra Castelli gallery in Milan and persuaded the 11 people inside to collaborate with him on staying in the room till someone broke the door down from outside. The majority of the audience (about 150 people) remained outside, and no one knew what he was doing. They finally broke the door down after an hour and a half.

Burden’s actions earned him a sensational media reputation. The New York Times, for example, ran an article in 1973 called He Got Shot for His Art, illustrated with a photo of Burden in a ski mask. The artist had worn this mask for a piece called You’ll Never See My Face in Kansas City (1971), but in the context of a mainstream newspaper such a photograph suggested that this man was a threat to society, a criminal. Burden went on to work with this public image as with a found object, sometimes undermining it, sometimes exploiting it. (But eventually, it helped convince him to quit performing.) In Shadow (1976) for example, he spent a day at Ohio State University trying to fit people’s preconceptions of an avant-garde artist by remaining aloof and wearing opaque sunglasses, black cap, and a fatigue jacket stuffed with notebooks, film, and a tape recorder. In The Confession (1974), on the other hand, he revealed intimate details about his personal life to a specially selected audience of people he’d just met, imposing on them disturbing knowledge which had to be reconciled with my public image. In Garcon! (1976), he served cappuccino and espresso to visitors at a San Francisco gallery and my attire and demeanor were such that only a handful of people out of the hundreds who attended the show recognized me as Chris Burden. He could create tension just by sitting in a room. In Jaizu (1972), Burden sat facing a gallery door, wearing sunglasses painted black on the inside, so he couldn’t see. Spectators were unaware of this. They assumed, then, that he was watching, as they entered one at a time and faced him alone. Just inside the door were two cushions and some marijuana cigarettes. As Burden described it, Many people tried to talk to me, one assaulted me, and one left sobbing hysterically. The artist remained passive, immobile, and speechless—the blank slate to whom each visitor gave an identity: judge? shaman? entertainer?

Burden invited only a small group of friends and other artists to witness actions with the most shock potential, like Shoot. But whether performing in public or private, he never made things easy for those who came to watch. These pieces were too real: either too horrifying or too everyday Spectators at Shoot might ask themselves the same question as the spectators at Working Artist (1975), a piece in which Burden lived and worked in a gallery for three days—and that is: what made me want to watch this? Audiences found themselves implicated in their voyeurism. Art doesn’t have a purpose, Burden once said. It’s a free spot in society, where you can do anything.³ Burden established his art as that territory outside the social contract where either the artist or the spectators might do what they would otherwise think inappropriate.

This unpredictability brought a tension bordering on hostility to his pieces addressing the art world. For Doomed (1975), at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, Burden reset a wall clock to twelve and lay down beneath a sheet of glass tipped at a forty-five degree angle, then did nothing. The audience began to throw things at him, but still he did nothing. Eventually they calmed down and some kept vigil with him—for forty-five hours and ten minutes, as it turned out. Like his other performances, Doomed was sculptural, in that it was built for a particular space and circumstance—in this case, the curator’s request that he not do something short because the museum expected a large crowd. I thought—OK, I’ll start it, you end it. And that’s what the piece was about, Burden said.⁴ He decided that when museum officials interfered with the piece in any way, it would end. He never told them this, of course, and never expected them to let it go on for days. When someone finally set a glass of water next to him after forty-five hours, he got up, smashed the clock with a hammer, and walked out. Doomed was a classic gesture of passive aggression. By conceding that institutions and business people, not artists, have the power, Burden forced the museum officials to act as the