10/15: Shaking Angles

I woke up Friday with nothing on the agenda. This was hardly surprising, considering I'd been back in the city for four days with no job, no school, and hardly any money. While I was puttering around the apartment my phone went off - it was my friend Michael, a photographer who lives out in Brooklyn and seems to know half the population of New York. 

Sam, want to perform tonight? He said. 

Well... I... sure, why not?

And with that I was set to perform, at a place I'd never heard of, for a performance artist I'd never seen, doing god-only-knows what. I was only a little worried about what I'd gotten myself into. But nonetheless, I was excited. 

I arrived at the National Arts Club at 4:57 - three minutes early. From the outside, the club was nothing to speak of; a townhouse in a row of townhouses off Gramercy Park with an awning boasting it's name in an outdated font. A small woman (french - one of many foreigners I'd meet that night) met me inside the door and guided me through a maze of galleries and hallways, finally emerging not far from where we'd begun. She presented me to the choreographer (Canadian).

Ten minutes ago, he said, I'd have needed you.

Great. Just great. 

I wandered over to a bunch of normal-looking people. It seemed I was to be a "pusher," a pedestrian involved in the act the title would suggest - pushing. We stood in a back hallway like sheep. After awhile a man walked in: Bald, crazy glasses, high-wasted pants that seemed two inches too short at the ankles and (of course) sporting crazy shoes. He honed in on me. 

You, he said in a mild Russian accent, I have something else for you.

He guided me to the "backstage" area, which was really just the end of the gallery blocked off by a piano and already packed with dancers and other performers. 

So. Will you be naked or in your underpants.

Welcome back to New York.

Underpants, I said feebly. 

Let me see them. Quick, quick take off your pants. 

I decided to embrace the situation, and let fly my shoes, pants, shirt. 

Yes, those are good. His inflection was such that I couldn't discern whether it was a question or a statement. I didn't have time to ponder it though, because he'd grabbed me by the arm and led me over to a small white laundry basket with twelve hundred strands of white beads ziptied to the rim.

Sit, he said.

I did. As the laundry basket was lifted over my head I suddenly realized it was a costume. And it was mine. I was now standing, in my underwear, in front of twenty dancers, with a laundry basket over my head. 

I'd thought that was ridiculous. 

I was wrong. 

Andrey - as I later learned the artist's name to be - led me into the performance area - a long narrow gallery split lengthwise into stage and viewing area. 

So. You spin spin spin down the stage and then you dance here. Okay? That is what you do. Let me see. Good. More spinning. Like this. Then on the second show (we're doing this twice? Thanks for the heads up, sparky) you smash your costume like this. Don't do it now. Second time. Big Smashing. Like this. 

Come show time, I found myself packed into the back hallway with forty or fifty other performers. None of us was being paid and people seemed to have come from all reaches of the globe for it - A french dancer who'd worked with the choreographer more than a decade ago, a stocky russian woman wearing bags of shredded paper on her legs, a homeless guy in white go-go boots. Andrey came rushing through the crowd. He found me.

You! You! What is your name? Sam? Hi Sam. Come with me. Here put your costume on. Now. Stand here (He faced me toward the back wall) until it is time to go on you stand here.

My portion of the dance was the last, about half an hour into the show. So I stood. And stood. Facing a wall. With zipties sticking into my eyes. The things we do for art.

Apart from the whole zipties-in-the-eyes-thing the first show went off without a hitch. 

The audience went wild - but not half so wild as the second audience would get.

In show two, you'll remember, I'd been instructed to destroy my costume. At show time I stood facing the wall and waited obediently until it was my time to go on, spun down the performance space, and danced in place, waiting for a cue.

I heard the rip of the cardboard close by and in seconds things turned to mayhem. Beads, garbage, fabric and cardboard went flying as we destroyed our costumes. Screams and yells erupted from the audience as bits of everything - fly swatters, newspapers, shredded paper - flew at them. I engaged in a tug-of-war with the guy next to me, both of us in our underwear tearing up a giant foam and cardboard contraption he'd previously been wearing. This lasted for what couldn't have been more than three minutes but we milked every second of it for all it was worth. Exhilarated, scraped up, and tiptoeing among the remnants of the show we made our way back offstage. Next time I get an offer like that - no details, no idea what I'll be doing - I'll be saying yes without a second's pause and praying it's half as ridiculous as this was.