Column | Marina Abramovic – NRC

On Monday morning, Cleo, William, and I went to the Stedelijk Museum to see the Marina Abramović exhibition. “That’s Mom,” Cleo said, when she saw the huge banner on the museum’s plaza façade depicting Abramović’s open-mouthed face—and screamed, of course.

I thought about the performance art class I once took. We spent hours watching videos of Abramović’s early work: the self-flagellation, the endurance, her dominating expression, her calm eyes, her wild mouth. I had never seen anything like it. The fact that Cleo now saw no difference between her and me delighted me.

As she wraps herself in a robe and her face becomes increasingly impassive, Abramović seems almost more than human. She has, and she has done just that, become a mystic throughout her life: you believe she can see the back of your soul at a glance.

We walked into the exhibition space. The walls, the floor, everything was blood red. Marina was riding a white horse, there was a pile of bones in the corner, bottles of champagne, Marina talked about cutting out the eyes of rats, and then danced to a Balkan song. “I know conspiracy theorists are very upset about this,” William muttered. Cleo stomped dangerously across the room and pointed at Marina, who was roughly combing her hair: “Hi, Mom.” Marina and Ulay slapped each other: “Oh, Mom.” To Marina, who was shot in the heart by Ulay: “Mom, be careful.”

William squeezed between two naked people in the doorway while Cleo and I waited for him on the other side. “Hey,” William said as he joined us. Then again, “Hey.”

I’ve lost something, I thought, as I walked past a table, where people were once allowed to request these objects from Abramović in whatever way they saw fit. That specific performance has always meant a lot to me. There was a man holding a loaded gun to her temple. Others took pleasure in hurting or humiliating her. But the work no longer surprises me, it doesn’t teach me anything new.

It suddenly dawned on me that what I longed for was not Abramović, who could tell me something about cruelty and infinity, but rather the woman who turned me on. I needed the Virgin Mary badly.

I began to fantasize about her. She would suddenly appear in an exhibition space, wearing a cobalt blue dress with a train, her face chubby and smooth, her braids hanging down to her hips. We, the visitors, would gather around her in sacred silence. Some would slump to the floor, cross-legged, emotions blurring the black frames of our glasses, and all of our tired eyes would gleam with gratitude.

Marina would look at all the visitors one by one until her eyes locked with Cleo’s. She would lean down. The whole room held its breath. Then, in that low, inaccessible voice, she would whisper something in Cleo’s ear. Something like, “I see you have great spirit.”

I brought this child into the world with blood and violence, a performance of my life, and she, it was she, who blessed the outcome. We would coincide, she and I, the child, a trinity.

Pure kitsch. But that’s what it is these days.

Sarah Snooze She writes a weekly column. She is the author of books, essays, and plays.