Listen to this Introduction in its Podcast form
My mother died in June, 2009 after I refused to speak to her for three years. This was a tragic mistake and one I will regret for the rest of my life. Though, like every child who refuses to speak to a parent, I thought I had very good reasons for shutting her out. As soon as she died, however, those reasons didn't seem to matter much.
Months after my mother died, my husband, with whom I had two small children, left me. He also had very good reasons for doing what he did.
Thus, I found myself, in the spring of 2010, visiting a friend in Manhattan during one of the weekends I did not have my children with me. We were splitting the children's time 50/50. I couldn't stand to be alone in my home without them. I went away every weekend that I could. The weekends, I couldn't travel, I escaped by drinking myself into a stupor.
My friend in Manhattan slept in on a Saturday while I could not sleep at all. So, I got myself up and went for a walk. I have travelled to New York City many times. I felt as familiar as a tourist can feel with those early morning streets. It occurred to me that I might have a few hours to visit the Museum of Modern Art which I had actually never done. And, it was my great fortune that I just happened to visit MOMA while Marina Abramovic was in the middle of her "The Artist is Present" performance.
Here's the truth of that experience:
I had no idea the performance was taking place before wandering over to MOMA but as soon as I got in line for tickets, I heard the buzz of conversation on everyone's lips. The name, "Marina Abramovic" kept moving in circles through every conversation. I busily consulted my mental rolodex of artist's names that I recognize and I thought I remembered this one. Yes! Wasn't she in an episode of Sex and the City? This is a shameful reason to know of Abramovic's work to say the least. So, I continued to search. No! I remembered! We had studied one of her more controversial performances in my art history class in college. Oh ya! She's THAT "performance artist." The one that held a gun to her head or something. The one that allowed audience members to write all over her or cut her or something.
There is something I have always loved about performance art. I think its immediacy thrills me. Like spoken word poetry, it is raw and in-your-face and, at its best, unapologetic. But there is a part of me that has always thought that SOME performance art was kinda bullshit.
And yet... the way everyone around me was talking about Abramovic as we stood in line to pay the entrance fee, intrigued me. I thought, maybe this will be a bunch of bullshit. But they are making her sound crazy and they are making her sound dangerous and they seem bothered by her yet attracted to her. So, I eagerly climbed the stairs to where she was sitting.
Because it was where everyone was headed, I followed and got in line to sit with Abramovic. I was 16th in line. I counted. Once the flood of people died down, the woman in line in front of me turned around and asked if this was the first time I had come to wait. She had been in line more than a handful of times already. She had returned day after day to get the chance to sit with Abramovic. She said there were some days that people in front of her would sit for three hours or more. She was hopeful that today was her day. I confessed I really didn't know much about Abramovic or her work. So, this woman, strongly encouraged me to not bother with the sitting line and go, instead, upstairs to the lifetime retrospective of Abramovic's work. I considered the fact that my dear friend would be waking up soon and maybe I shouldn't spend all day in line "just" to sit with someone and stare at them. So, I got out of the line and slowly made my way to the sixth floor.
My way was slow-going because once I left the line to sit with Abramovic, I actually started looking at the piece. I stood to the side, with many other observers and watched. The space was blocked off with what looked like painter's tape. Abramovic was surrounded on all sides by about 15 or 20 feet of white space. So, watching the piece was like looking into a room that had no walls where two people were just sitting across from one another in chairs. But, once I started looking, it was, for me, breathtaking. It was intimate and vulnerable and painful. I actually wept (then again, I was weeping steadily and easily those days). Eventually, I tore myself away from "The Artist Is Present" to see what else this remarkable artist had done in her lifetime.
Marina Abramovic Is My Mother attempts to capture the journey I went through while experiencing the breadth and depth of Abramovic's (to-date) life work so I will not and really, cannot, recreate what happened to me in this introduction of the work. Before I entered MOMA that day, I was one way. Walking through Marina Abramovic's retrospective was like moving through a strange and unexpected birth canal. When I left MOMA that day, I was another way.
I will tell you this -- after the first couple of rooms of her work, this phrase came into my mind: "Marina Abramovic is my mother." And with each new work I experienced, with each new text I read, this phrase became a mantra. There was something in the work that made my body sing this song.
When I returned to Michigan, I borrowed every book about or by Marina Abramovic that was available in the state of Michigan. I scoured every available online search engine and venue for any scrap of information about her that I could find. I read feverishly. I took copious notes. I engaged in an intensive two-year study of Marina Abramovic. I began writing in response to that song that wouldn't stop ringing through my body. I began writing in response to everything that I was learning about Abramovic, her life and her work. I could not stop writing.
I didn't finish the first draft of Marina Abramovic Is My Mother until sometime in 2012 and that draft is almost unrecognizable as being related to the work's current state. Since then, I have rewritten, revised, reworked, shaped, bled and birthed this manuscript that for me, is the culmination of work that really began years before I even stumbled into MOMA that day.
What does it mean that "Marina Abramovic is My Mother"? This "claim" is the fundamental fiction in this otherwise "true" autobiography. I place "true" in quotes because this is MY story as I have told it to myself from MY perspective for most of my life. Though, through telling this story I have been able to gain perspective on it that I wouldn't have otherwise. Through adopting Marina Abramovic as my "mother" -- cultural, artistic, imaginary mother, though she is -- I have become the master (to a large degree) over the pain I thought for so many years absolutely defined me. I listen to this story now and I realize its immaturity, its melodrama, its refusal to accept responsibility for my life. Somehow, coming to know Abramovic's work has taught me this. I don't know how to explain how other than to have written this work.
There is one other major-ish fiction that I would like to address in this work. I have two children. In this story, I only have one. As I revised and continued to write the work, I realized that this was a woman's story about women and for women. It is about mothers and it is about daughters. My relationship with my son is a different story, outside the scope of this story. In Marina Abramovic Is My Mother, I only have my daughter. And in some ways, the "daughter" in this story is an amalgamation of both of my children.
From my studies of Marina Abramovic, I don't think that she would necessarily approve of this story being a "woman's story." Nor am I sure that she would greatly appreciate me "using" her art to heal from my own female trauma. But I did. And whether this is how she would want someone to experience her work or not, it is how I experienced it. I revere the work that Marina Abramovic has given this world. I have only sought to honor that work and dance with it in my response to it. Though I'm not sure she would appreciate my work in kind, I very much hope that she would at least see that what I have created is born from a deep and abiding gratitude and appreciation for her work.
Many of the people who have come in contact with this work ask me if I will send it to Abramovic or let her know that it is in the world. I see no need for this. I have made sure I am not breaking any laws by using her name in my work. But beyond law, me approaching Abramovic with news of this work seems akin to a hummingbird approaching the ear of a dragon with news of its minuscule nest. If this work has merit and becomes known to enough people, she might eventually know of it. And, in that instance, I hope she will forgive my brazenness at claiming her. I hope she will understand that my claim is actually to myself.
A Note about the voices in the Marina Abramovic Is My Mother Podcast: My friends and colleagues lent me their beautiful voices for these recordings. Some are trained actors. Some are skilled readers. Some are, themselves, poets. All were generous with their time and supportive of this work and I owe them my abiding gratitude. There are times that the voices contradict one another sharply -- a big clear voice like a bell rings up against a voice so quiet you have to lean way in and over to hear it (or turn your device up to maximum capacity). I thought for a long time about re-recording these seemingly smaller voices but in the end, I decided it was absolutely essential to keep them in. All of these voices are my voice. All of these voices are the voices that bounce up against one another inside my head -- or at least some of them. And sometimes I have to listen hard to hear the voices in my own mind. And sometimes they are as plain as day -- as clear as a bell. I feel like this variety of voices -- these variations in volume and pitch and cadence are exactly what this work wanted -- needed even. I am forever grateful to Trisha O'Connor, Barb Handley-Miller, Mark Brown, Kristin Cornelius, Chey Davis, Arra Lynn Ross, Donna Giuliani, Laura Dull, Crystal Starkey and Danielle Petersen for their time and effort in bringing Marina Abramovic Is My Mother out into the light.
Months after my mother died, my husband, with whom I had two small children, left me. He also had very good reasons for doing what he did.
Thus, I found myself, in the spring of 2010, visiting a friend in Manhattan during one of the weekends I did not have my children with me. We were splitting the children's time 50/50. I couldn't stand to be alone in my home without them. I went away every weekend that I could. The weekends, I couldn't travel, I escaped by drinking myself into a stupor.
My friend in Manhattan slept in on a Saturday while I could not sleep at all. So, I got myself up and went for a walk. I have travelled to New York City many times. I felt as familiar as a tourist can feel with those early morning streets. It occurred to me that I might have a few hours to visit the Museum of Modern Art which I had actually never done. And, it was my great fortune that I just happened to visit MOMA while Marina Abramovic was in the middle of her "The Artist is Present" performance.
Here's the truth of that experience:
I had no idea the performance was taking place before wandering over to MOMA but as soon as I got in line for tickets, I heard the buzz of conversation on everyone's lips. The name, "Marina Abramovic" kept moving in circles through every conversation. I busily consulted my mental rolodex of artist's names that I recognize and I thought I remembered this one. Yes! Wasn't she in an episode of Sex and the City? This is a shameful reason to know of Abramovic's work to say the least. So, I continued to search. No! I remembered! We had studied one of her more controversial performances in my art history class in college. Oh ya! She's THAT "performance artist." The one that held a gun to her head or something. The one that allowed audience members to write all over her or cut her or something.
There is something I have always loved about performance art. I think its immediacy thrills me. Like spoken word poetry, it is raw and in-your-face and, at its best, unapologetic. But there is a part of me that has always thought that SOME performance art was kinda bullshit.
And yet... the way everyone around me was talking about Abramovic as we stood in line to pay the entrance fee, intrigued me. I thought, maybe this will be a bunch of bullshit. But they are making her sound crazy and they are making her sound dangerous and they seem bothered by her yet attracted to her. So, I eagerly climbed the stairs to where she was sitting.
Because it was where everyone was headed, I followed and got in line to sit with Abramovic. I was 16th in line. I counted. Once the flood of people died down, the woman in line in front of me turned around and asked if this was the first time I had come to wait. She had been in line more than a handful of times already. She had returned day after day to get the chance to sit with Abramovic. She said there were some days that people in front of her would sit for three hours or more. She was hopeful that today was her day. I confessed I really didn't know much about Abramovic or her work. So, this woman, strongly encouraged me to not bother with the sitting line and go, instead, upstairs to the lifetime retrospective of Abramovic's work. I considered the fact that my dear friend would be waking up soon and maybe I shouldn't spend all day in line "just" to sit with someone and stare at them. So, I got out of the line and slowly made my way to the sixth floor.
My way was slow-going because once I left the line to sit with Abramovic, I actually started looking at the piece. I stood to the side, with many other observers and watched. The space was blocked off with what looked like painter's tape. Abramovic was surrounded on all sides by about 15 or 20 feet of white space. So, watching the piece was like looking into a room that had no walls where two people were just sitting across from one another in chairs. But, once I started looking, it was, for me, breathtaking. It was intimate and vulnerable and painful. I actually wept (then again, I was weeping steadily and easily those days). Eventually, I tore myself away from "The Artist Is Present" to see what else this remarkable artist had done in her lifetime.
Marina Abramovic Is My Mother attempts to capture the journey I went through while experiencing the breadth and depth of Abramovic's (to-date) life work so I will not and really, cannot, recreate what happened to me in this introduction of the work. Before I entered MOMA that day, I was one way. Walking through Marina Abramovic's retrospective was like moving through a strange and unexpected birth canal. When I left MOMA that day, I was another way.
I will tell you this -- after the first couple of rooms of her work, this phrase came into my mind: "Marina Abramovic is my mother." And with each new work I experienced, with each new text I read, this phrase became a mantra. There was something in the work that made my body sing this song.
When I returned to Michigan, I borrowed every book about or by Marina Abramovic that was available in the state of Michigan. I scoured every available online search engine and venue for any scrap of information about her that I could find. I read feverishly. I took copious notes. I engaged in an intensive two-year study of Marina Abramovic. I began writing in response to that song that wouldn't stop ringing through my body. I began writing in response to everything that I was learning about Abramovic, her life and her work. I could not stop writing.
I didn't finish the first draft of Marina Abramovic Is My Mother until sometime in 2012 and that draft is almost unrecognizable as being related to the work's current state. Since then, I have rewritten, revised, reworked, shaped, bled and birthed this manuscript that for me, is the culmination of work that really began years before I even stumbled into MOMA that day.
What does it mean that "Marina Abramovic is My Mother"? This "claim" is the fundamental fiction in this otherwise "true" autobiography. I place "true" in quotes because this is MY story as I have told it to myself from MY perspective for most of my life. Though, through telling this story I have been able to gain perspective on it that I wouldn't have otherwise. Through adopting Marina Abramovic as my "mother" -- cultural, artistic, imaginary mother, though she is -- I have become the master (to a large degree) over the pain I thought for so many years absolutely defined me. I listen to this story now and I realize its immaturity, its melodrama, its refusal to accept responsibility for my life. Somehow, coming to know Abramovic's work has taught me this. I don't know how to explain how other than to have written this work.
There is one other major-ish fiction that I would like to address in this work. I have two children. In this story, I only have one. As I revised and continued to write the work, I realized that this was a woman's story about women and for women. It is about mothers and it is about daughters. My relationship with my son is a different story, outside the scope of this story. In Marina Abramovic Is My Mother, I only have my daughter. And in some ways, the "daughter" in this story is an amalgamation of both of my children.
From my studies of Marina Abramovic, I don't think that she would necessarily approve of this story being a "woman's story." Nor am I sure that she would greatly appreciate me "using" her art to heal from my own female trauma. But I did. And whether this is how she would want someone to experience her work or not, it is how I experienced it. I revere the work that Marina Abramovic has given this world. I have only sought to honor that work and dance with it in my response to it. Though I'm not sure she would appreciate my work in kind, I very much hope that she would at least see that what I have created is born from a deep and abiding gratitude and appreciation for her work.
Many of the people who have come in contact with this work ask me if I will send it to Abramovic or let her know that it is in the world. I see no need for this. I have made sure I am not breaking any laws by using her name in my work. But beyond law, me approaching Abramovic with news of this work seems akin to a hummingbird approaching the ear of a dragon with news of its minuscule nest. If this work has merit and becomes known to enough people, she might eventually know of it. And, in that instance, I hope she will forgive my brazenness at claiming her. I hope she will understand that my claim is actually to myself.
A Note about the voices in the Marina Abramovic Is My Mother Podcast: My friends and colleagues lent me their beautiful voices for these recordings. Some are trained actors. Some are skilled readers. Some are, themselves, poets. All were generous with their time and supportive of this work and I owe them my abiding gratitude. There are times that the voices contradict one another sharply -- a big clear voice like a bell rings up against a voice so quiet you have to lean way in and over to hear it (or turn your device up to maximum capacity). I thought for a long time about re-recording these seemingly smaller voices but in the end, I decided it was absolutely essential to keep them in. All of these voices are my voice. All of these voices are the voices that bounce up against one another inside my head -- or at least some of them. And sometimes I have to listen hard to hear the voices in my own mind. And sometimes they are as plain as day -- as clear as a bell. I feel like this variety of voices -- these variations in volume and pitch and cadence are exactly what this work wanted -- needed even. I am forever grateful to Trisha O'Connor, Barb Handley-Miller, Mark Brown, Kristin Cornelius, Chey Davis, Arra Lynn Ross, Donna Giuliani, Laura Dull, Crystal Starkey and Danielle Petersen for their time and effort in bringing Marina Abramovic Is My Mother out into the light.
