This story stems from my interest in performance art, art that centres on the body of the artist and its actions. I have followed Marina Abramovic (and Ulay) for decades, from the early 70s on, well before Abramovic attained sainthood. Yoko Ono's Cut Piece was also an inspiration (see my
Investigating a Case of BDSM
.) Then, there were Carolee Schneemann, Joseph Beuys, Yves Klein and others.
Many of my stories have autobiographical roots. I have done exhibitionist performances - primarily at vernissages and exhibition closing parties. In my case, there was no pretence. Hardly. My objective was to be seen, no more, no less. My
"Skin-Deep - Shorn and Shown"
documents one of these performances.
My fictional "
Their Saving Grace
", "
Naked - Opening and Exhibition
" and my true, but non-autobiographic
"
Investigating a Case of BDSM
"
further demonstrate my interest in this art form.
The present story is entirely fictional. What I aim to do in this story is to muse over what performance art at its worst can be. How far would an artist go? So, the story covers all manner of actions I'd abhor. To call them a challenge is an understatement. I would hate them.
My heroine does too, but she is a performance artist who loves the challenges she hates.
Why describe all manner of performance actions I'd abhor? For me, to write her story (or any story) is to try and imagine myself in her place. What would I think, how would I feel? I hope you can stay with me so that we may experience these detestable actions together. Shared grief is halved grief, isn't it, and shared joy double joy?
Part 1 - The proposal
a. INTRODUCTION
Look, I am Vivienne. Vivienne is my name. What is my identity? What am I, Vivienne?
I am two things, actually. Two poles apart: a primary schoolteacher and a performance artist.
A rather extreme one. An extreme performance artist, I mean. I am a well-behaved, sweet and competent schoolteacher and popular at that. To say that I do the teaching for money and the performances for passion is not how it is. True, income-wise, I couldn't only do performances. I wouldn't make enough to get by. Far from it. So, I do need the day job. It's true that I invest a lot of passion in my performances. But I am a fully committed schoolteacher as well and love my children. They know it. In a wholesome way, make no mistake. Teaching keeps me grounded. So, the way yin needs yang, the performance artist needs the teacher.
My two identities are clearly complementary necessities. As a schoolteacher I need the madness of my performances, as a performance artist I need being grounded by teaching children and seeing them grow, in spirit and body. The two identities don't meet at all. They are complementary. I am the common denominator.
I am sure you know what a primary schoolteacher does, so I won't delve into that much. Performance art can be anything. In my case, it generally involves nudity and provocation, often a reflection on the feminine condition.
The twain don't meet. I won't surprise you when I say that my teaching takes place in a village over an hour away from the city where I perform. I live in the village where I teach. There is another town closer by the village. It is there that my fellow-villagers generally go to do their city shopping. Combined with the fact that the theatre where I have a regular three-monthly Friday-night slot is in an off-centre part of the other, farther and bigger city, the odds that a parent will see me perform is small. The requirement is 18+, so the children wouldn't get in, even if they wanted to. My audience generally counts twenty-five to thirty people, never over fifty, so the odds are slim anyway. Though my audience is growing, one by one. And, you have guessed it: I use a pseudonym. My full name is Vivienne Townshend, but my performer's name is Vanna X. I am twenty-nine years of age.
I have a steady boyfriend, who is twenty-six. His name is Stephen and he lives in the city of my performances. We have been going steady for some five years. We are together on weekends and on one or two nights during the week. Always in his city. He is a painter. The chief tie that binds us is sex. Number one. But also, art, as number two. And we are able to talk well together about any issue. Our lives are hardly symbiotic, but we live and let live and are able work out any consequences of our differences. He always stands by me at my performances and often assists me when I need a hand.
I have alluded to the fact that the central theme in my work as a performance artist, if there is one, is reflecting on the feminine condition. More specifically, generally the theme is BDSM-related, in other words: power exchange. BDSM is also central to our sex life. Exchange, as we alternate taking the domineering and submissive roles, depending on who happens to take the lead, or who has the strongest idea. We see BDSM as an exaggerated form of what goes on in any relationship between life and love partners.
I have artistic pretensions, yes, and I am serious about my art, but what kicked me off becoming a performer were not artistic ideas, but my exhibitionism. I have to be honest. I got off and still get off on showing myself naked. The more extreme the better. It is just that I have managed to find a socially acceptable outlet for this exhibitionism. (And yes, Stephen and I practise it in our social/ BDSM life too, in his loft, at selected parties and occasionally outdoors.) Okay, I exaggerate. It is not just my exhibitionism. I am serious about proper artistic ideas underpinning my performances.
You now know a lot about me, but not what I look like. Well, I am quite tall for a girl - 1 m 80 cm or six foot. I have mid-blond short hair, showing my ears, mop top style, not a bob or whatever. I like to think that I am athletic and do work out an hour each day on the days I don't see Stephen. Unusually for my generation, I have no tattoos and sport a nice dense patch of pubic hair. I have had my armpits lasered, as well as my legs, groin and labia, so my bush is kept in check, such as it is. My breasts are on the small side, but they fit the bill. I have managed to avoid scars, that is: permanent scars. Both in my art and in my private life. Temporary marks I try to limit to where normally my clothes will cover them.
Avoiding major scarring has taken some skill! Particularly as I have to confess: I like pain. Is this wholesome, is this appropriate for a woman, post-#MeToo? Is it appropriate for a strong woman, a self-assured woman, one who is in control, who frowns upon patriarchy and snobbishness and traditional values? For a school teacher?
I am aware of domestic violence, with usually a woman as the victim. But I get off on pain. In my performances I do try to avoid anything that looks like domestic violence. In my write-ups I emphasise the fact, but that is where my concern stops. To be politically correct in my trade would stifle me.
I get off on pain. So, the practical limit is: to avoid scars, nothing else. What does pain bring me? An intense experience, a high, nirvana... It is hard to put in words. I have only 'suffered' at the hands of Stephen or my own, except once or twice a girlfriend of his if we wanted a woman. What forms of pain have I played with? Paddle, various kinds of whips, flogger, bare hand, nails, needles, nettles, cattle prod, candle wax, cigarettes. I am sure I forget something - you will get the drift: just about anything.
The 'worst' pain I experienced? A woman-friend of Stephen sewed my labia majora shut once. Stephen saw this on the internet, knew that I wanted extreme and told me about it. He couldn't bring himself to do it, hence asked this girlfriend of his. She was (is) a trooper, and a nurse, not keen on the act, but after studying the handful of examples on the net, prepared to do it. And she did, nicely sterile and all that. But, no anaesthetics. Sisters, it hurt like nothing else! She sewed six little holes in each labium with a coarse red thread. Amazingly, the bleeding was minimal! The aim was not to hurt me, in this case, but to minimise the hurt and certainly prevent any infections etc. She succeeded in keeping me healthy.
What was the philosophy of the action? The philosophy that went along with the desire for pain, that is. The idea was about chastity, as my clitoris was hidden and I couldn't masturbate, if I had wanted to. Paradoxically, it was also about keeping a man's penis from entering; about submission and, of course, about mutilation. Someone saw it as a reference to female circumcision without actually doing such. Fine, all of the above are true and whatever else rocks your boat. The outlandishness of the action itself was another driver.
This performance was done on stage, with me comfortably laid up. All guests could walk on and off the stage, however, and come close or alternatively stay in their seats and watch the projected video.
The nurse friend made twelve holes in succession with a hefty piercing needle and pulled a smooth red thread through. The pain each time was brief but intense. The trouble was the number of the piercings. I royally had my fill after seven or eight, after which I developed a real fear for each next go. I needed Stephen to hold my hand for remaining five or six holes. I could just about suppress pleading for this thing to go away. But the moment did arrive when I was done. The pains lessened quickly, to nothing more than soreness.
I stayed sewn up laying down for half an hour, which time I needed to calm down and recover. The audience and the video didn't leave me alone, but I couldn't have cared less. The pain did abate to manageable levels and I spent another hour mingling with the audience in the lobby and bar and talked to them. Naked and sewn-shut, yes. I loved being naked in the company of dressed people. Especially in this case when they were in awe of my sewn-up sex. Pulling the thread out was painful again. And so was peeing for the next day or two. Yes, I peed with the thread in place beforehand, just to see, in the theatre. Messy job, but popular with the few witnesses that were switched on.
I do think back fondly of this event and I did like the look. Very much. I know I am an exception. Many of audience could not handle it and, frankly, were disgusted with me that I could. I was a freak. Perhaps they were right, but I live a normal life otherwise, contribute to vanilla society and do not cause harm to anyone else, now, do I?
