Photo of person peeking into the Etant donné gate from Flickr user Darren and Brad.
In Spring 1978, a mime in silver robot make-up jumped in front of my sister and I, scaring the crap out of me. I was 10 years old, in Philadelphia, and continued up Rocky’s steps into the Museum of Art, its galleries appointed with suits of armor and old paintings of Jesus.
It seemed kind of boring until I walked into the modern wing’s Marcel Duchamp room. In the middle stood “Large Glass,” which looked like a broken window stood on end. In the corner was “Etant donnés,” which requires viewers peek through a wooden gate. Against my father’s wishes, I stood on my tiptoes and peeked in to see a naked woman lying beside a waterfall, her pile of pubic hair in the foreground.
That day, bracketed by fear and confusion and delight and more than likely an onset of puberty, marks my fascination with performance art, in situ, site-specific and as affected as can be, artwork with live people, and you get to be a part of the action, preferably something stupid or fucked-up.
