2005-03-08

When I began considering this project, I did not know what to do. The curator proposed that I make a performance, though I hemmed and hawed a bit at first, It then seemed to dawn on me that it would be a fantastic space and opportunity for performance art. But what could I do? I wondered and wondered for days, and began to fret that I wouldn�t come up with any ideas. So I decided on a day off from work, to simply go for a walk. Walks clear the head, and are just so good for you. When I decide to do something, however, it turns into a fascist ritual of subjugation to the thing I have proposed to do. I never feel I can take anyone along on my walks, for instance, because it�s not fair to just go and go and not know where you are going to end up with a walking partner by your side. Any way, this is what I decided I would do, just start walking until I came up with an idea for this perfomance. The day was nice, it was a Sunday afternoon; birds were chirping, busses were running by, and I was feeling good immediately. I started breathing in and out with the cadence of my steps, and decided that would be the first rule of the walk, to breath in and out, and to mentally watch my breath. I breathed in for four steps, trying to stretch out the inhale equally, and then exhaled for four steps. Normally your body is used to exhaling quicker than inhaling, so it takes a little repetition for your body to understand. Passing by streets that started getting more bustling, my concentration wasn�t as acute, and I would lose count of the breaths, or get impatient and breath faster. But then I would get back into the count after a while. And I noticed that the concentration of the mind comes and goes, growing until things become quite natural, and then shrinking so that it is very hard to keep the count. Your body is telling you it is tired, and needs a little rest. So I would forget the breath for a few blocks, and let my eyes and ears take in the sights of the train overhead, of the subway restaurant and Carvel Ice Cream right next to it, combined into one of those 1990�s creations of two chain restaurants in one. The idea seeming to be as much as you can get under one roof.
Eventually I made my way the Queensboro bridge like this breathing and walking. I had come up with a slogan for this project. Watch your breath, because watching the breath was the first and really only trick to Yoga, all the stretching and bending were just ways to help sharpen the mind and body, the breath was the important thing, that helped to unify mind and body and spirit. And Watch your step was the second part, because this was a public meditation, and I was moving about in the world, and so I had to from time to time, watch out for red �don�t walk� signs, speeding cars, ice patches on the sidewalk, or mothers pushing baby carriages, or dogs, or whatever. Be careful in the world, be smart and observe your surroundings. So the slogan was �Watch your breath, Watch your step�, it had internal balance and kind of rhymed, which I liked; plus it had all this economy of meaning and truth to it. And that was what i was doing, as i walked along the entrance to the Queensborobridge, still with little idea of what to do for my performance. I began to rise in the air as I continued my mantra of breathing, and the bridge rose with me. Cars sped along my left side, mere feet from the walkway. Queens lay behind me, and manhattan was in front of me. Its towers and condominiums sparkling in the late afternoon sun. I had been walking for an hour by now, at least.
I really became more isolated on the bridge. There were only 2 or 3 others walking, and so i was left to really concentrate on my breathing. I decided, as my body had relaxed, to stretch the breath from a 4 count to a six count. This meant slower, more methodical breathing. I imagined time slowing down, as my body relaxed, the breath slowed.(body of me, body of the universe). I thought about spokes in a wheel, 12 spokes, 6 on each hemisphere. As each spoke hit the ground, a little of my air was released, all equal and democratic. The last breath out was eased into the next slight inhalation, and so my mind considered these things and submitted to the quiet of it all. Nearing the middle plateau of the bridge, where the climb lessons, I was comfortable enough to begin breathing to a count of 8. I thought of dancers, remembering when i was young my mother teaching jazz and ballet classes to kids. You always started the routine with a countoff, :
5, 6�7,8 ... and then you began the movements. In a choreographed routine, 8 beats was the magic number. You also could see it if you watched Fame, the TV show. I was dancing now, on that bridge. My mother quit dancing long ago, became a mother, taught aerobics for a bit in the mid 80�s, and finally became a jogger. She ran for miles everyday. She ran in marathons, half marathons, 10 k�s. she even competed in a few triathalons, well into her forties and fifties. Once she told me that running was like dancing; you just keep on moving.
At the direct center of the span of the Queens boro bridge, above roosevelt island, an idea struck me. It was light and simple at first, but i soon began to consider it as a plausible performance for this Show in Newburg. The more I turned it over in my head, the less improbable it seemed.
My mind hesitates. It says to itself, well, we�ll just give it time, continue with the walk, and see if you can think of anything better. I�m sure you will. But i haven�t yet, and by the time I finished my walk and was headed back home, retracing my path underground on the N train, I was still working out the details of this idea.
Play Dead. Paint your skin blue like a corpse. Lay unmoving under a spot light for the duration of the opening. Allow the viewers to enter the concept of death as you do by meditation. Let them see the sublime idea of death as the reason and balance for a revered life.
Lets see, Marina Abramovic has done sitting pieces where she would stare at Ulay for the 8 hours that a museum is open. Teh Ching Hseh�s first year long piece was to sit in his studio and not leave. Vito Acconci�s seedbed is similar, though you don�t see the artist.
I was on a roll. This was something that just might work.
Walking through manhattan took the rest of the day, and much of the night. I descended down from 59th street to the lower east side. Pausing to have a bagel with Cream cheese at a place called �Atsa Bagel!� on first avenue. The guys there were nice, i fantasized about living in manhattan in an affordable apartment. I moved on with my walk, still breathing, hands stuffed in pockets, past so many distractions in the village. I lingered over the sidewalk cafe, which was just beginning the sign up for its (this is Monday!) Monday night Antifolk Open Mic. I had played at that event a few times years ago, and had always the poor luck of somehow not getting onto the stage until after one am. It was a marathon of the poor, the sometimes good, and the strange performances, while trying to nurse the 2 or 3 beers that I could afford. I walked by Mondo Kim�s on Ave. A, and saw with a furrowed brow that it had been closed down, or moved out. How could that be? Things change too quickly in the city sometimes.
At two boots pizzeria /video store/theater (thank god that �s still around) a very interesting movie was playing about a punk songwriting performance artist that disappeared from the 70�s without a trace. It nearly derailed from my task, though I guess I was losing sight of what exactly that was, I guess I just wanted to walk a little further, or try to get to the southern tip of the island. I moved on, it was approaching 830 pm. Still breathing, still walking.
I walked through China town, offering little help to a kid from Philly who was looking for the Chinatown bus. Later i walked past a bus offloading tons of people with luggage in the middle of the street right under the Manhattan bridge and realized I had found the bus. I past by Wo Hop, a great 24 hour chinese place I had been to years ago with a good friend; but never had been able to find or quite secure the name of it in my head. Hopefully now I will be able to return there with confidence. 15 Mott st.
I kept moving, past buildings and streets Im not sure I had ever been on before.
I stretch out this story because i don�t want things to end, just like this walk, but it did end, and I knew it when I arrived, that there was significance. I came upon ground zero, sight of the world trade center. The empty expanse is lit by spotlights like a Friday night High school football field. People are working around the shifts, men stationed to guard the workers entrance sip on cups of coffee. They have built the New Jersey Path train entrance a long time ago, but I have never been here since. The entrance descends into the pit of the trade center. Fences are all around, and each pole is written on with marker, a loving word, sorrow, peace be with yous, people all need to express themselves somehow when they are here. Under ground the entrance to the New Jersey train is completely empty. It is the most barren and strange place I have seen. Pipes line the ceiling, going this way and that. Everything is temporary and utilitarian. From here you can see a ground�s eye view of the site. Like what the workers who have been digging through rubble and bones saw for 6 months. I stare out through the fence that proclaims quotes about New York City from varied authors as Emerson, and Giuliani, I stare out and I can�t help it but let one tear fall down from my right eye. �The bastards.�