The Sixth Borough
The first thing I hear after exiting the building is a loud police siren. The Institute of Contemporary Art in Philadelphia is closing down for the day, and I'm lugging a bunch of props and set objects awkwardly out the front door. I've just said goodbye to the curators of the museum, who have been extraordinarily kind, intelligent, and accommodating. One of them even knelt on the concrete floor with me, to help focus a projector prior to the show. Aside from the brutally hard concrete floor, the performance went very well. In some ways, concrete is a small price to pay though: performing in a visual arts venue seems insulated by people who actual curate (literally, "care for") the work that's presented, and have taken special attention to the surrounding context. In addition to that, the public has come to see "Art," with a capital A at a public institution. There is an unspoken assumption that when they enter the facility, an artistic experience will occur. This forms an invisible contract, even if unspoken. In that way, there are fewer apologies for the subsequent viewing experience. Even when dance is shown within the walls of a museum, an audience is less likely to preface their observations with "Well, I don't understand dance, but....." There is more likelihood that people will trust their own vision, their own perceptive powers.
The sirens are still blaring, and getting a bit louder. So I start making my way to the car. Philadelphia is often called "The Sixth Borough" among artists, which is not only an affectionate, double-edged joke, but also an increasing truth: artists are emigrating from New York City more often now, and the cheaper prices of Philadelphia are beckoning visual artists, dancers, musicians, and theater artists alike - all of whom are eager to find affordable workspace, and vibrant communities for alternative, experimental, or multidisciplinary work. "Sixth Borough" also refers to violence, I think. The crime rates in Philadelphia are extremely high, perhaps so high that they surpass any of the post-Giuliani five boroughs of New York City. Philadelphia is an outer, "other" borough just 90 minutes away. I hear this nickname more often than I hear "The City Of Brotherly Love," which is perhaps an outdated moniker at this point. Philly is a beautiful, complicated city, and as I walk back to the car, I catch myself thinking, "Why don't I come down here every month?" There is a burgeoning dance scene just 90 minutes away, that's completely accessible by car, train, bus, plane, etc., and it's an extremely affordable trip. 90 minutes is about the distance from Paris to Brussels as well - it's just curious that our country isolates its metropolitan areas the way it does, and I begin to think about my own participant in that isolationism as well.
My friend Michael Hart is rounding up the car, and I stop in a Seven Eleven to get a snack before the trip. Inside, there are oppressive florescent lights, packaged food in rows, Slurp-eee machines, and coolers lining the walls. I also notice a number of surveillance cameras, and low-resolution monitors behind the double counter in the center of the store. They seem to change about every 10 seconds, and skip frequently (which reminds me of the video projector in the museum - it kept flickering with its own rhythm).
I can't quite find anything to eat, and after a while, I become
embarrassed of my dancer-neurotic eating habits, so I decide to make a
quick choice. I'll get some milk, which has protein, and might help
bones which have just danced on concrete. While looking at the skim,
whole, low-fat, two-percent, chocolate, non-RBST treated milk, I
suddenly start thinking about what I must look like in those cameras -
am I being watched? If so, no big deal, but I wonder what it looks
like. Through the reflection on the cooler, I can see low-resolution
images of my body on the screens behind the counter; it's an angle of
my body that I would never be able to see. I then get impatient with
myself, snap out of it, choose low-fat milk and head to the cashier.
There's a long line. The cashiers are very, very slow. The screens
flicker and switch. The employees are chatting. Someone's talking on a
cell phone.
I then notice that one of the cashiers touches the
other one's hand; she whispers something; one of the male clerks then
leaves the counter area; I look outside and see Michael waiting in the
car.
Behind me there is a huge eruption, and a loud, shouting
voice starts to yell "Get Offa Me," while everyone in line whips around
to see what's going on. Two aisles away, three men are swarming around
a much larger, stronger man in a down coat. They literally hang onto
his arms and back as he flails around, calmly but forcefully, like a
giant rhinoceros. Everyone in the store is surprisingly calm, too calm,
incongruently calm. "Get The Hell Offa Me. I Don't Have Nothing," the
man says, very loudly, but without shouting. He flails and whips his
powerful body, and the three men keep trying to overpower him,
uselessly. I am totally puzzled because the situation is extreme, but
sedated. The man's tremendous body and voice begin propelling through
space, trying to shake off the three men, who are now trying to cuff
him. As violent as this scene is, it is completely unsurprising: the
man is clearly not threatened by the three people clinging to him, and
his voice barely needs to shout. In fact, he seems bored - except that
he thrashes up and down the aisle, and the other bodies ricochet after
him, pitifully, in response to his body's movement. This becomes
choreography, without a doubt - probably the most raw improvisation I
will ever witness.
The cashiers stand still, and everyone in the
line is watching this scene unfold without saying anything. The
surveillance screens flicker and switch every 10 seconds. No one knows
what to do. But no one is in shock. A bit freaked out, I keep beginning
sentences, directed at no one: "This is......" "Holy shit......"
"What....."
This continues for about three minutes, with the
entire store in a state of inertia. Everyone's attention is arrested,
but no one is in any danger. Clearly no one can approach this moving
mass of four violent bodies careening through space (it would be
ridiculous to intervene), but no one can turn away either. There is
milk in my hand, and a five dollar bill on the counter in front of me.
This just doesn't make sense. It's totally incongruent with the
violence just a few feet away.
These are not my images. I want
to abandon this. This continues. I can't watch this. I am drawn to
this. This is horrible. This is so static, so low-resolution, and so
unthreatening. Where did this come from? I think to myself, as I put
down my milk. I decide to leave, but an employee has locked the front
door. "We can't let him get away!" says a defiant employee, with her
hand on the lock. The experience becomes even more surreal even minute.
The man continues to flail and buck wildly.
Newer, louder sirens
are sounding now, and they are coming closer with blue lights
flickering - a bit like a projector. Suddenly I have a panoramic view
of the Seven Eleven from the front of the store. I am completely stuck,
witnessing this scene unfold in the aisle, held captive by the event.
Everyone is a spectator, an audience member, and I begin to resent
this. I feel forced to watch something that I didn't agree to see, and
I am forced into voyeurism that I did not decide on. What about that
unspoken contract, like in the gallery? When I entered this space, I
did not agree to view this. My mind starts protesting the experience by
thinking about the aesthetics of it: the choreography of the bodies,
the movement, the velocity, the rhythm, the audience, the cameras, the
space - and I begin to hate myself for that. The woman opens the door,
and I exit.
Posted by
Jonah Bokaer on January 28, 2008 3:25 PM
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