Luggage

An artist is determined to keep a censored part of their work in the upcoming exhibition.

The reception would begin in two hours. We were in a bathroom just off the lobby and had managed to enter without being seen by staff. Caterers and bartenders were setting up just outside the installation area.

“They don’t get it,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “Is that your goal? For them to get it?”

It’s been about four months since the decision. The Board was thrilled with her work but one component was too much. If she removed it, the exhibit would be funded – otherwise, no.

“The history of artists and their sponsors,” I mused at the time, unhelpfully. 

The installation included three scenes or vignettes set in a circle; viewers would walk around the outside experiencing one scene at a time. Curtains hung from the ceiling, separating the three scenes, with openings to move between them. She hoped visitors would continue in a circular path, re-experiencing the three scenes a few times before leaving.

In the bathroom, we quietly transformed into our characters, donning costumes and accoutrements.

We had met at school where we studied theatre and film; I was more of a technician and she was the artist. After a course in art administration I turned to a career as an agent – with a single client, this woman I loved and lived with.

The exhibit was entitled “Luggage” and the main set piece for each vignette was a room-sized box that resembled a suitcase three meters high, four meters long, two meters deep. The three scenes told stories inside – and spilling out of – the suitcases. She had re-envisioned the story of the golden calf from Exodus. I still don’t recognise or understand some of the allusions – and I’ve studied the story. Of course during the Board presentation, I was confident:

“The first scene tells a story of migration, a new land, a new home. Inside the suitcase are clothing, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, two candlesticks – all about five-to-ten times larger than life.

The second scene tells a story of religious intolerance. Inside that suitcase are two large swords and two stone tablets etched with unintelligible words. Several human figures are in line with offerings that they place into the suitcase – animals, grain and gold.

The third tells a story of ritual sacrifice. The suitcase contains the golden calf and an altar, surrounded by bloody corpses that spill out of the suitcase and onto the floor.

When you leave the third scene and find yourself back at the first one, things seem different. She hopes visitors will ask: Did the vignette change, or did I?”

One week after the presentation, the Board chair sent an email which I read out loud as she showered. It concluded:

“We hope you understand the Board’s position as that portion of the installation poses several risks and concerns. The Board sincerely hopes you will agree to proceed with the change. Please know we remain thrilled to present this important work.”

It was a few hours before she shared her reaction; I knew better than to push.

“Tell them Ok.”

I was sure she’d tell me to tell them to go fuck themselves.

After a couple of weeks she walked me through the revised design. In place of the objectionable portion of the ritual scene was an empty space, in front of the suitcase, outlined by waist-high yellow tape bearing thick black text:

“Police Scene / Hazardous Waste / Police Scene / Hazardous Waste”

“The scene of the crime – their censorship?” I assumed.

“So, here’s my plan,” she said. “We can’t install the piece as intended.”

“No.”

“But we might bring it to life – suddenly, surprisingly.”

We were in position within the third scene. We were Miriam and Aaron – sister and brother to Moses. In her version of the myth, the siblings convince Moses not to unleash the Levites on those celebrating around the golden calf. (In the biblical story, three thousand are killed.) Instead, the siblings offer a ritual sacrifice. 

We waited and listened.

The curtains between the vignettes dampened the sound of people arriving but we could imagine what was happening. The first to arrive would be gallery staff, some Board members and several art journalists. Local news assignment editors would have sent “art and culture” reporters.

We could hear their murmurs as they entered the exhibit and were examining the first scene. Clearly, this scene was about travel and moving to a new land. But over time, subtle light and sound changes emphasised particular elements. This was not just travel – it was escape. Sounds included engine noises, horses and wagons, the sea churning – and the occasional cry of “Hurry!” and “Wait!”

After about ten minutes some visitors began moving through the curtains to the second scene. The theme of religious violence was obvious enough; the swords and stone tablets were dripping with blood (fake of course), courtesy of a quiet pump, two reservoirs and tubing, all hidden. The human figures in front of the suitcase seemed to be offering hospitality to the newly arrived, but changes in light and sound then implied exploitation – they were being taxed under duress.

Several minutes later, visitors began entering the third space and there they encountered us. They watched silently, some with hands to their mouths as if preventing words or gasps from emerging. I could see them. I was bound to the alter, on my side, facing them. My arms were tied outstretched. Miriam opened the veins in my arms and my blood flowed down the altar, pooling at its base. Human figures knelt as if animals drinking from a trough. The visitors were coming forward, joining in the scene.

They’re treating my situation as an attempted suicide and charging her with assisting. As I lie here in this hospital room, I can’t help wondering whether this, too, is part of her installation.