Review of a U.C. Series Performance by R. West
For Christine Tamblyn’s Inter-arts Class
S.F. State, Winter 1987
Theater, by its very nature, lends itself to criticism. The structure of theater, especially in its relationship between the performers and the audience requires one, as a spectator, to separate the performance into its different elements of production and analyze them accordingly. Although well-done theater persuades its audience members to suspend their disbelief temporarily and become emotionally involved with what they are viewing, one aspect is always present – that of illusion – which capsulizes theater, and isolates it from reality.For Christine Tamblyn’s Inter-arts Class
S.F. State, Winter 1987
Performance art stems from the very root of theater. Although it has many things in common with theater, mainly the element of spectacle, the aspect of illusion is usually noticeably absent, allowing it to smear (if not dissolve altogether) that fine line between art and life. Consequently, it must be examined from a different angle of perspective than one would use to approach a piece of theater. Theater can be critiqued: performance art must be experienced.
Last Thursday night, I experienced Frank Moore’s “Subversive Playing”, an experience quite unlike anything I had had previously. Setting out with the knowledge in mind that the aforementioned was a quadriplegic who did erotic performance, I was hardly expecting the Disney movie of the week, but I was still unprepared for what I would encounter at Dwinelle Hall on the UC Berkeley campus. In retrospect, I think I had vaguely envisioned some sort of nasty-minded Viet Nam vet performing amazing tricks with a steel-plated erection while he simultaneously played the harmonica and made the hula girl tattoos on his pectorals dance – a terribly misguided image, at best.
The classroom aura of the space in which the performance was held had been slightly toned down by incandescent lighting, tapestries hung on the walls, patchouli-scented incense wafting from one corner and sitar background music. I took a seat next to six other people. Frank, a man with severe physical handicaps impairing his ability to speak, as well as the use of his limbs, began the performance by asking each of us our names and what we did. The questions were asked by use of a word board attached to his wheelchair, which he pointed to with a stick strapped to his head in a painfully slow process to spell out his sentences. A friend of his, Linda, was on hand to assist in translation.
The small audience was comprised mainly of students from varying schools and disciplines. A few of the members answered with exaggerated volume and clarity, apparently under the assumption that Frank had hearing trouble as well. Upon hearing that I was an art student, Frank asked me if I was a performer. “Aren’t we all?” I retorted. In a wheezing fit of delight, Frank told the others in attendance to “pay no attention. Art students love to give cryptic answers.”
After the preliminaries had been completed, Frank had Linda read to us an essay he had written on the subject of “Eroplay”, a term he coined to describe certain types of physical interpersonal communication. Eroplay is something he considers vital to mental, physical, and spiritual health. Eroplay is intense communing of human souls through touching and feeling of the physical being. Foreplay is eroplay, but eroplay is not foreplay. The sex act is not included in eroplay because it stems merely from the primal urge to mate and serves only to release all the precious erotic tension built up from eroplay. Eroplay is the sort of thing that occurs when children play with one another physically and intensively, because the sex act is not a possibility.
Midway through this dissertation, two of the audience members got up and left.
“According to plan,” Frank told us. “I put all the boring stuff at the beginning to weed out the bad element. Some people come here to see a freak show. But I will not let you sit back and entertain you. I am not TV.”
Before we went any further, Frank instructed Linda to tell us about the cookies. Everyone was offered their choice of bran or peanut butter as Linda explained that they had been baked with a drug called somalla which would not make us do anything we didn’t want to do, but would help us to overcome our inhibitions in order to take part in what we did want to do. Slightly skeptical and more than a little squeamish, I choked down my cookie and waited to see what would happen next.
Frank told us we were headed for a three-ring circus, of sorts. The first ring, on our right, was in a tent made of draped tapestries printed with a pattern of nude torsos. In the tent was the Listening God, who would hear any confessions or secrets we wished to tell him, as well as serve us in any way we instructed him to. “Be careful with him, “ Frank warned us, “for he is a fragile and delicate god, like a baby. He is unable to speak or answer you, but will receive from you anything you wish to give.”
Frank asked Rodney, one of the audience members, to lie down on a mat in the center of the room. This would be the second ring. Frank held up a box and told us that it contained slips of paper like those found in fortune cookies, with brief instructions for physical acts on them – some as simple as waving or scratching your head, others more complex.
The third ring was in the hallway, where Frank would answer any questions and receive any comments we had about the performance. On that note, Frank motored out of the room and Linda told us to choose whichever ring we wanted and the performance would commence.
Not being of a particularly brave nature, I immediately crawled off to hide in the tent, where I was slightly dismayed to find a nude man lying on the floor. “Hey, come here often?” I asked the Listening God, who replied with a blank stare. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be hiding out in here awhile,” I whispered, and had a seat on the floor next to him.
Out in the second ring, the performance was beginning to roll. The first instruction Linda had pulled from the box was “Rub your heads together,” and by now they were on the second, “Lick each others ears.” After a few minutes of slurping and giggling, she pulled out another one – “Remove your pants or dress.” I looked over and raised my eyebrows at the Listening God, who registered little surprise. Little wonder; the next instruction read “Take another’s hand and guide it on your genitals sensually.”
After 15 – 20 minutes, I realized I couldn’t go on hiding in the tent much longer. The Listening God was beginning to look bored and I wasn’t going to have enough material to write a review on. I mustered up enough courage to bid adieu to my scantily clad friend and emerged from the tent. At this point, the four other original audience members were actively engaged in a collective grope session, having removed not only their pants and/or dress, but also their inhibitions and anything else which might have encumbered their progress. Uncertain about what to do with my hands (not to mention the rest of my body), I decided to have a couple more cookies and take a seat next to Linda, in the neutral zone. She still pulled and read instructions from the box, but by now they were a mere formality. Outside, in the third ring, I could hear a newcomer chatting with Frank, a man from New Jersey, judging by the sound of it.
Linda leaned over and whispered to me that I could watch for as long as I like, but was welcome to join in any time I felt like it. I was surrounded by the sights, sounds and smells of a love-in. Anything was permissible except the actual act of intercourse. It hit me in a wave of revulsion similar to what I felt when confronted with childbirth films in high school biology class. My analytical mind told me to view the writhing mass of flesh in front of me as a performance art phenomenon, yet underlying this I could not deny the stomach-churning disgust that was gradually overwhelming me. I noticed that the man from New Jersey had stepped into the room and, seeing my chance, I made a break for it into the hallway.
“What do you think?” Frank asked me. Thus began a conversation that would last for nearly two hours, in which we discussed Frank’s work and philosophy at great length. As inexperienced at dealing with someone so handicapped as I am with group sex, I cannot overemphasize how incredibly impressed I was with this man. I was absolutely stunned to find a mind so brilliant encased in this twisted piece of wreckage for a body. I have met few people so articulate, despite the fact that his words come with such great effort, due to his inability to speak.
With the aid of his word board and an essay he had written entitled, “The Magic Art”, Frank and I began by discussing the difference between art and life, which he, of course, feels is non-existent. Rather, he feels that it is the responsibility of the artist to eradicate that difference as effectively as possible, necessitating the use of shock and the breaking of societal taboos. Frank views himself as a modern-day shaman, healing and instructing through the ritual of his art, and going beyond the barriers imposed upon us by society in order to create a form of magic. His goal is increased communication.
Far from being hindered by his physical mutations, Frank feels that his body gives him an edge in his work. For one thing, he is unimpeded by the societal and economic pressures faced by most artists. In addition, he appreciates the fact that his appearance will always add an element of shock value, putting him at an advantage to other artists. He cited the example of his friend and colleague, Paul McCarthy, who “has lost the magic. He became popular and people began to accept him. He could no longer shock or move people with his work.” His appearance also tends to impel people to underestimate him, allowing him to catch them unaware. Another reaction he receives from people is the projection upon him of magical powers, such as being able to see through their facades to the hearts of their character. He utilizes all of these “advantages” in his work.
Frank considers himself a natural performer, having been a receptacle for people’s attention his entire life. The interest in human beings inspired in him by his situation led him to study psychology. But what he always really wanted was to be an ultra-hip artist living in a commune in the Bay Area (“like I am now”, he added.) He began by painting, but felt it to be a stagnant art form and started to experiment with film. Still dissatisfied, he formed an idea for a play performed entirely in the nude, but had serious doubts that he would ever be given the opportunity to stage it. Much to his surprise, he was given permission by the San Francisco Art Institute in 1970, leading to his first experience with live performance.
Although he was excited by the potential of working within a live format, Frank was still discontent with one aspect of theater: the passivity of the audience. He racked his brain for ideas about how to persuade or trick audience members into participating in his pieces. “But Frank,” I interrupted, “you don’t trick anyone into performing.” He erupted into a sputtering seizure of hilarity – much to my alarm, because I wasn’t sure if he was laughing or having some breathing difficulty. After he had calmed himself down a bit, he managed to spell the word “actors” out on his board.
Caught completely off-guard by this revelation and still a bit concerned about his previous outburst, I asked him, rather testily, if he didn’t feel that he was shamefully manipulating the genuine audience members. He agreed with me, enthusiastically, but felt no shame whatsoever about his tactics. When people expose themselves to art, he countered, aren’t they consenting to have themselves manipulated emotionally? Frank contends that in order for art to be significant, it must manipulate people. Therefore, an artist has not only the right to do so, but the responsibility .
We had covered a great deal of ground in our conversation, and in the other room, the performance was coming to an end. The audience members gradually filtered out, clothed once again, and Linda began packing up the tapestries. One of the women stopped to say goodbye to Frank. “You fooled her,” Frank said.
“I didn’t know you were an actress,” I told the woman.
“I didn’t know, myself,” she replied.
In Freedom,
Frank Moore
