April 23rd, 2010
You see the scene.
The four, cornered lights with silks.
The white tape in square with form-bolstering cords;
The true yet transient perimeter, 40x40ft.
A wooden table,
Twin chairs to match
In center stage,
Square within square,
The remnant of a tree
Growing from green slate,
A reflection of grass.
at an end,
Participant placed to the compliment,
all to have between them
She is striking in posture and face.
A nose to rival stereotyped witches.
She offers what so many wish of celebrities;
A chance to sit with them,
Be near them,
And most outstanding,
To have their complete attention.
Most unusually and improbable of all,
You have their eyes through hers.
Will her attention falter?
In my time waiting
will she stand and leave before I do,
Before I have a chance?
What is she offering?
Will she change from these encounters?
Will she change me?
Will my stare change her?
Will the years of focused attention
on the work of my hands change me?
Why am I here?
Why do I want to sit with her?
She prepares herself.
Shoulders down head moved slightly
To settle the kink to the lower right.
Eyes closed to revive moisture,
Light re-envigored by darkness of closed lid,
A new person approaches,
The artist takes her time
She is not a microwave.
This is not fast food.
This is real.
This is personal,
She tells any who wants a burger and fries
To look elsewhere
in her slowly returning posture.
In the awakening
She is a phoenix;
Anew like the first glance,
—A virginity Madonna can’t touch.
Vitality lasting person after person,
Day after day,
Two months to follow the first.
You can’t just be a spectator.
You want to participate,
Want to experience,
Want to know,
With a touch of being seen,
One person wants two minuets.
One as long as he can stand it.
One as long as he can sit.
Another but a breath.
One man staid an hour and a half,
And continues to sit and stare
From across the room at the unfolding,
He either gained something here
Where he is left incomplete
A little more
From watching her back, face, and hands.
So is this a test for us or for her?
Hands puffed from blood.
Eyes also shot bloody.
Face is grease and sweat from the four, 1K lights.
She stands the risk of malnourishment,
Blood clots in her legs from prolonged sitting.
A challenge of patience,
Do I want to wait half an hour,
Will I forgo the artist’s artwork for the artist herself?
What is an artist without her art?
She makes us a piece of her own art
By our own willingness,
Art arising mentally to those involved,
Physically and emotionally on human palletes
The brushs of her eyelashes paint
With the color of her eyes
And the texture of her face’s age
By the hold of her body’s sacrifices
To the strokes of the compliment
And to the inspiration of the interaction.