The Problem with the Girl with the Mattress: Considering Emma Sulkowicz, Performance Art, and Gender-Based Misconduct

Emma Sulkowicz is one of the most interesting and problematic figures in the art world right now, though no one is really talking about her as an artist.

She’s a victim. She’s an attention seeker. She’s a martyr in short-shorts carrying a mattress. She’s the voice of the voiceless. She’s a privileged Ivy League art student with a gimmick for her senior project. She’s a symbol of a failed justice system. She’s the civilian at the State of the Union.

Of course, all of these statements are reductive, and as such, none are the whole truth or whole fallacy of Emma Sulkowicz.

Carolee Schneemann's "Interior Scroll" was an important work of feminist Performance Art
Carolee Schneemann’s “Interior Scroll” was an important work of feminist Performance Art

From the beginning of her “Mattress Performance: Carry that Weight,” I’ve been uncomfortable with Ms. Sulkowicz. As an art historian (and fellow Columbia fencer — Roar, Lion, Roar) my first reaction was not to her story, but to the art work. “Carry that Weight” felt like a student art project: derivative and unoriginal. Performance Art is dead these days, thanks in large part to Performa and the medium’s increasing theatricalization (I just made a word there). “Carry That Weight” is not Orlan carving up her face, adding absurd implants to question definitions of beauty. Nor is it Carolee Schneemann’s “Internal Scroll.” It can be argued (as her adviser tried to do) that it’s an act of endurance art a la Marina Ambromovich, but the direct comparison doesn’t help it feel original.

The other problem is that in order for the piece to have any significance to the viewer, it needs the context of Emma’s biography. Having a broader sense of current affairs doesn’t really help. A student carrying a mattress is meaningless and non-specific.  Maybe the piece is about immigrants, or the homeless in New York — a city of great economic disparity. Emma’s name suggests non-North American roots, while her own ethnicity is visually ambiguous. There is no auxiliary iconography to provide clues that will help us decipher the performance.

See what I’m getting at…

The piece needs the media to make it successful. And that should raise some alarms.

And what about Ms. Sulkowicz’s story? What was my reaction there? I was disturbed on many levels. First, I was appalled at the statistics her performance brought to light. Next, I was disturbed by how I reacted to her interviews.

“If she wants to be taken seriously, she shouldn’t be wearing short shorts and a tank top. The dye-dipped hair doesn’t help either,” I remember saying.

By seriously, I meant seriously as a professional artist, but what I was also implying, was seriously as a victim. It’s too easy for men as well as woman to look at someone in revealing clothes or with subculture accessories and make snap judgments about everything form their trustworthiness to their sexual preferences. But why is this the case? Appearances are not facts. Shouldn’t a girl be able to go out in a mini-skirt or low cut top and feel safe? Is she “asking for it?” No, she’s not.

This week, her alleged rapist was finally granted a venue to share his side of the story in the media. This was long overdue. The media’s eagerness to turn Emma into a symbol should raise some cautionary flags, largely because the writings have been one-sided.

On the other hand, what the campus rape revelations, the police brutality incidences, and the related media responses have proved is that we live under local justice systems that are inherently flawed — that tend to favor the accused perpetrator rather than the potential victim. Paul Nungesser has a right to share his story as publicly as Emma. The differing accounts are troubling, and a reminder that there is no absolute truth. The timeline of Emma’s interactions with Paul post-incident doesn’t mean she didn’t feel violated or that there wasn’t an incident of assault.

I just hope that the Daily Beast piece doesn’t become a rallying cry for those who want to go on pretending that victims of gender-based assault are just crying wolf.

I always remember my academic adviser warning me off writing a thesis because it was a waste of my final semester in college. “No one writes anything very important for an undergraduate thesis. There isn’t enough time. You’d be better taking another class.”

Is Sulkowicz’s performance piece an exception to that rule?

As a piece of performance art, the answer is no. But as an act of protest, or act to raise social consciousness about a flawed system, the answer is yes — it’s extremely important.

Giving Up the Gun, Or What the Psychic Said

Once upon a time, I impulsively dropped $75 on tarot card readings.

That’s right, in an 18 hour period, 2 different psychics had their way with me and the entire contents of my wallet.  What, in God’s name, was I thinking?

At the time, I was broke, uninsured, verging on broken-hearted, and in serious need of a disinterested 3rd party’s reassurance that “Everything will be alright.”

I just didn’t plan to lose $75 for that reassurance. Luckily, neither psychic really told me what I wanted to hear.

The first reading happened at night, in the back of a French restaurant on red leather couches outside the restrooms. The psychic, (a man!), didn’t want to waste any time on assessing my career. After a flash reading, he determined there were no uncertainties there. I knew what I wanted, and it was only a matter of “when,” not if I ‘d get it. He looked at me sideways. “Tell me about the guy… he’s been around a while hasn’t he?”

Caught.

I quickly related the story of the guy I met as a freshman in college, became best friends with, and accidentally and mistakenly fell madly in love with. After 7 years and dozens of close encounters, we were toying with the idea of becoming something more.

My psychic dealt the cards and though he slowly deciphered their placement and relation, he quickly painted an accurate portrait of the relationship between me and HIM. The slow build up. The intellectual underpinnings. The unbalanced emotions (“he’s the one that has all the feeling”). The punchline? Drop him. “You’ll have a long and stable romance, but you’ll lose something of yourself,” the psychic said. “If you leave him behind, as in drop him entirely from your life, you’ll get everything you really want.”

While I was less than satisfied the less than specific assurance about my career, I was devastated by the suggestion to drop the love of my life (up until then.) So of course, I sought a second opinion…

The next day I met my girl AB for lunch at Crema, a nouveau Mexican place on 17th street in the heart of Chelsea. In those days, Chelsea was still the original Hell’s Kitchen, home to the most beautiful beef-cake gay men and flamboyant drag queens. Crossing the street was the equivalent of perusing a visual candy store… but it was not the place to pick-up straight men making it the perfect neighborhood for a girls-only girl date.

It only took one bite of our flautas and 2 margaritas for me to convince her that we needed to have our palms read across the street, under the neon glow of a giant sign that screamed PHSYSIC. That day Madame was offering a deal: free palm reading with tarot.

I honestly can’t remember what she told me — she may have promised I’d meet my soul mate before the end of the summer or that I’d have a job offer tomorrow — but I do remember AB and I sitting in City Bakery an hour later, sharing  chocolate chip cookie and wondering if we’d just been had.

We pooled our remaining cash (#brokegradstudents) and bought another cookie — for when in doubt of life’s next step, chocolate usually solves the problem more certainly than a foggy crystal ball.

Chocolate has all the answers. (Image from the City Sage)

 

The Worst Break-Up Ever

90sbffThe worst break-up I ever survived was not with a boyfriend. It was with my best friend.

When I got my college freshman room assignment, the first thing I did was shoot an IM to my teammate, Suki. We were only slightly better than acquaintances, but we lived in the same area, trained at the same fencing club, and were both going to be spending our next 4 years at Columbia together. Great news! We were assigned single rooms a floor apart. We spent our summer preparing for college life by becoming bosom buddies. By the time orientation week started, we were thick as thieves, bonafide best friends.

As the year unfolded, our bond as friends grew stronger. There were few things we did apart. This was our first big mistake. We were always invited to things as a set, and when only one of us were invited to things, we’d usually bring the other. While we were each on different academic courses and had a handful of friends that didn’t overlap, for the most part we were peas in a pod, attached at the hip — one person to the majority of the outside world.

Nothing could possibly come between us. But 19 year old girls can let anything come between them, and in our case, it was 2… make that 3 boys.

What exactly happened over the course of a year and half is less important than the fact it culminated in me calling her a slut, she locking me out of our shared dorm room and both of us flushing our friendship down the toilet. She had picked boys over our friendship while putting other relationships at risk. I take loyalty very seriously. There was no option for recovery.

We had timed our break-up well — a week before reading week, 2 weeks before finals, and a month before we called it quits for summer recess. We lived together, but she had an upperclassman friend who would let her crash at his place on week nights. I’d go home on the weekends. Without coordinating it face to face, we had worked out how to avoid each other.  There was a mural on the wall behind our beds — something we had started working on one sleepless night when we didn’t feel like studying but never really finished — I took a sponge to it.

I sat in a kind of quiet depression through that summer. I was fragile and jaded. I had confided in her in a way I had never confided in someone before — she knew all my secrets. How could I trust anyone — friend or lover — again? I lashed out at friends that tried to push us back together. Perhaps a few other relationships fell by the wayside. The collateral damage was almost too large to measure.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that 9 out of 10 boyfriends become ex-boyfriends. But best friends, those are supposed to last a lifetime… so when best friendships come crashing down, we’re left feeling abandoned, betrayed, and wounded in a way no significant other can ever effect us.

Of course, a decade later you get the benefit of saying “things happen for the best.” And for us, the end of our friendship was probably the best thing that ever happened to us both. She found true love outside our complicated polygon. We found our unique identities. I moved on, and while I’m more cautious about who I let into my life, years later, I learned to trust again.

 

Learning to Wear Eyeliner and Life’s Other Little Road Markers

There are some nights I'm pretty sure I've gone out looking like this...
There are some nights I’m pretty sure I’ve gone out looking like this…

I am notoriously dangerous with eye-liner. Don’t hand me anything in liquid form because I’m likely to end up with a comma shaped black blob that transverses an entire side of my face. Despite an otherwise steady hand, pencils have been known to temporarily blind me.  I’ll confess, thanks to a single brush and some guidance from the professionals at Laura Mercier, I’ve come a long way over the last two years. But that doesn’t mean there haven’t been nights were I everybody calls me “Left-Eye.”

“No, I didn’t get socked by an artist at a studio visit. I just had a fight with my eye-liner… it won.”

I started wearing makeup in the 8th grade. Like most adolescent females, hormones were kicking in and wreaking havoc with my complexion. Boys no longer had cooties. We had graduated out of training bras (this is where I’m clearly dating myself, because I’m pretty sure Pink makes padded bras for 10 year-olds nowadays).  We were finding our identities and expressing them in outlandish nail polish shades while learning the subtle benefits of foundation and mascara.

This a caboodle, the girl's equivalent of a tacklebox
This a caboodle, the girl’s equivalent of a tacklebox

It was the 90s, and the caboodle was the girl’s equivalent of a tackle box — a feminine-toned, and often glittered, plastic case with little trays that folded out and mirrors that popped up. We filled it with all the tools of our trade: foundation, loose powder, eyeliner in every shade under the rainbow, eye shadow tones that complimented or clashed with our eye color, Tinkerbell brand blush, and lip glosses that tasted like cotton candy. We’d tote the box to sleep overs. A mini version lived in our lockers.

A few make-up consultations later and armed with lessons gleamed from manuals by Bobbie Brown and Kevyn Aucoin, I reconsidered my approach to “putting on my face.”  I gave the caboodle the boot.

Here’s where I begin to make a leap into life’s more significant realizations…

There comes a point when you stop experimenting and settle on a signature style.
There comes a point when you stop experimenting and settle on a signature style. I’m a black eye line and bold lipstick kind of gal

If in our teen years, we’re finding ourselves, in part through colorful experimentation, then eventually, there comes a time when we stop experimenting. Like learning to edit down word counts for papers and grants, we learn what we really need to make an impression. We find our perfect shade, our go-to routine and that’s who we are.

Considering My Relationship with the Oscars

In case you missed my Red Carpet interview, I wore an emerald-colored gown to the Oscars.

When I was 17, this is what I planned to wear to the Oscars....
When I was 17, this is what I planned to wear to the Oscars….

It was a strapless number, structured through the bodice but draping effortlessly from the hips. There are understated gold embellishments that are really only visible when I move — an effect for the Red Carpet paparazzi. It’s vaguely inspired by Whoppie Goldberg’s spoof of Scarlet O’Hara’s curtain gown….. It’s a knock-out, sure to land me on every best dressed list.

And with an imaginary flash of the photographer’s camera, and an adieu to Ryan Seacrest, the daydream ends and I remember: I was not at the Oscars.

When my friend Annie and I were writing our respective masters’ theses, we’d often procrastinate by conjuring up our Oscar nights. I’d always more or less return to the same scenario — attending on the arm of Gerard Butler in my jewel-toned gown with baubles by Harry Winston.

This year, I went with Bradley Cooper….

Anyway, all of this bring me to the point that, when it comes to the Oscars, all I really care about is the clothes.

It’s been a long time since I’ve watched the Oscars having seen enough of the nominated movies to give any intelligent input about which deserves what. Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions.

I took it very personally the year Russell Crow lost to Denzel Washington for Best Actor. In fact, I was so miffed that I refused to see any Denzel Washington movie since Training Day, for which he won the award. That’s right, I won’t be seeing Flight anytime soon. (Though, I’ve watched Remember the Titans more times than I care to admit…we all make concessions….)

Every year, there’s a movie nominated for Best Picture that I absolutely refuse to see, under any circumstance.

In 2009, it was Avatar. (still haven’t seen it)

I won't see Lincoln... and it's not just because Daniel Day Lewis looks like he's wearing a Halloween costume...
I won’t see Lincoln… and it’s not just because Daniel Day Lewis looks like he’s wearing a Halloween costume…

In 2013, it’s Lincoln. Don’t ask why… you’ll be here for hours….

Oh, and Les Mis. I won’t see Les Mis. I didn’t like it on Broadway, and I don’t expect to like it on the big screen. Even if Russell is in it… So I’m just not going to watch it.

Ever.

I saw Argo and I loved it.

It wasn’t an extraordinary movie, on par with some of the great films in history, but there was something about it’s understated quality and veracity that made it incredibly watchable, dare I say riveting. I want it to win something.

I wished I’d seen Zero Dark Thirty. I’ll probably catch it when it hits Netflix.

When Katherine Bigelow beat out ex hubby and mega egoist James Cameron in all the important categories with her Hurt Locker (hands down one of the most memorable and powerful movies ever made) I was positively giddy. So, I’m secretly (and with blind prejudice) pulling for her latest film to take home some big awards.

If Ann Hathaway walks home with that Oscar this year, there’s a good chance I’ll throw something at the television.

Unless she’s wearing something fantastic…

For the actors, the Oscars mean a lifetime achievement. For me? It's all about the clothes...
For the actors, the Oscars mean a lifetime achievement. For me? It’s all about the clothes…

 

If My Nightstand Could Talk…

It's a great lamp to read by... now, if only I was as good a reader

If my nightstand could talk it would tell you I’m a schizophrenic reader (I bet you thought I was going to say something else, didn’t you?).

My nightstand is an inherited piece made from Canadian Maple. It doesn’t produce syrup, but it is home to a Limoges porcelain lamp adorned with two very Fragonard-esque lovers. The lamp is likeable for both its campness and its luminescence — it’s a great lamp to read under.

That being said, I’m a notoriously bad reader. I’m slow. It takes me ages to get through an entire book. And since I like owning books so much, I tend to impulsively buy something I want to read, start reading it, only to put it down after another impulsive purchase. My gallery is on the same block as a bookstore. It’s like a heroin addict living on the same block as a clean-needle clinic. I walk the other way.

With all that in mind, it shouldn’t be a surprise that there are currently 4 books on my night stand, all in various stages of being read.

At the bottom is W. Somerset Maugham’s “The Moon & Sixpence.”

I’ve actually already read this one, but I’m re-reading it. Maugham’s insights into the feminine character provide endless source material. When I’m too tired to read much or write anything, I take a quick scan through the pages I’ve dog-eared and salivate over his talent — it’s just written so damn well.

Next is “Four Fish: The Future of the Last Wild Food,” by Paul Greenberg.

I’m not entirely sure how much of “Four Fish” I’ve actually consumed (ha! ha!). I bought it in part to help me with research for an exhibition…that’s right… an exhibition about fish… and in part because I’m a foodie who wants to better justify why I’ll only eat wild fish. I spot read this based on what I plan to have for dinner the next night…

One layer above that is “When You’re Engulfed in Flames,” by David Sedaris.

My bookmark indicates that I’m about half way through. I love everything Sedaris writes.

At the top of the pile is Megan Marshall’s Pulitzer Finalist book “The Peabody Sisters: Three Women who Ignited American Romanticism.”

The 400-page biographic tome has barely been scratched. I’m proud to say this one is a loan from a friend who read  my blog and thought “The Peabody Sisters” would be right up my alley. That’s right, someone read “They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband” and the first thing that came to mind was the story of three 19th century women who helped shape America’s greatest literary movement.

I guess I must be doing something right.