In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
In any conversations I’ve had about attending The Royal Academy’s currently running Marina Abramović exhibition, the same question has invariably come up: ‘Did you go through the door?’.
This is, of course, in reference to the restaging of Abramović’s 1977 work Imponderabilia, in which she stood opposite then-partner and fellow performance artist Ulay, both naked on either side of a narrow doorway which visitors had to pass through to enter the exhibition. In a contemporary update of the piece, an alternative pathway is provided for more uncomfortable visitors to pass through and, naturally, a number of security guards are stationed on either side of the piece to prevent any photos or videos from being taken. That the work is even being restaged - at The Royal Academy, no less - perhaps speaks to the cultural changes which have taken place over the intervening four-and-a-half decades; the original performance was shut down by Italian police after only three hours on the grounds of ‘public decency’.
This is not to say that the restaging was without controversy however; headlines were filled earlier this year with scandalised reports of the performance, to which Abramović has responded with the lament that “I can’t believe that this piece still has the same criticism as we had in the ‘70s [...] Look at the Renaissance, look at the early paintings, look at the cave painting. There are nudes everywhere”.
So, what makes this work so much more shocking? Obviously, the immediacy is a large factor, and passing through the door is an undeniably intimate act, but the conversations I’ve had with fellow visitors have instead centred around the logistics: Which way should I face? Where should I leave my bag? The colleague I attended the press view with spent minutes deciding whether or not to take her coat off, while passing through myself I was so concerned with not stepping on anyone’s toes that I was on the other side before I knew it.
Upon running into one of the models later in the show, ‘out-of-character’ as it were, I felt the need to apologise, to which I was told that the real awkward element for the performers was maintaining eye contact with their partner for the duration of the performance. This raises some questions about the nature of the re-staging; the partnership between Abramović and Ulay was a key element of the original performance, so has the piece lost something in its reenactment? Or should we see this more as an evolution of the work?
It is clear that Abramović sees it as the latter; in a press conference upon the retrospective’s opening, she spoke of the younger generation of performance artists involved in the exhibition, as well as her desire to foster such talent for the medium’s future. As has been frequently observed over the last decade, however, the rise of social media has increasingly blurred the line between public image and performance art. Is it the immediacy of being in the presence of the artist that makes performance art? Or can such works be replicated via screen?
This is a difficult topic to consider; it could be argued, for instance, that Francis Alÿs’ Sometimes Making Something Leads to Nothing, in which the conceptual artist spent nine hours pushing a large block of ice through the streets of Mexico City, is remembered to this day largely because it was filmed. Throughout Abramović’s career, her works have been chronicled by photographs, film, and even an entire documentary. Word of mouth, it would seem, is not the ideal way to experience performance art.
Meanwhile, social media appears to be the very canvas upon which the new generation of performance artists create their work. Juno Calypso, for instance, in character as her alter-ego ‘Joyce’, used Instagram to document her artwork in American ‘love hotels’, interrogating beauty standards and the mundanity of ritualised beauty routines, with the works only appearing as part of Somerset House’s The Horror Show over a year later. If performance art can be defined by its inherent malleability, then the most exciting development will be watching how it evolves going into the future.
