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Viewers were generally kept in line by guards, Abramovic’s wandering boyfriend, and their Foucauldian selves.

I was not present Friday, for the cover of Valie Export’s Action Pants, Genital Panic, in which Abramovic sat on the platform, wearing crotchless pants and holding a machine gun. Reportedly, the two’s eyes remained on one another for an entire hour.

Facechecking the brush is dangerous, and so is facechecking the web.

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Each gesture had a locale, its own station of the cross, so to speak.

In Opera: The Art of Dying, Linda and Michael Hutcheon suggest that before 20th century medicine made death somewhat postponable, viewers watched opera to rehearse their demises—and demises of loved ones– to come to terms with death’s inevitability.

Unlike Eve, her trajectory was not from admirer to competitor; “It was not a staring contest,” says Erin. Abramovic—her face covered in honey-adhered gold leaf—dragged herself around the stage with a lead plate tied to her left foot, pointing to blank blackboards, while whispering into the limp ears of the dead rabbit she cradled. Monday, the performance was extended to seven hours, and became less linear and more cyclical.

Marnie then went in for the kill and asked her if she had ever masturbated, which left the usually opinionated Saira lost for words.

Questions of authenticity immediately arose in conversations among the viewers. “She’s at the Waldorf right now,” said multi-media artist and choreographer Jack Waters. We think of it as dirty, but these fluids coming from your body look like a fountain. I had microphone in bucket, but I took out, because I just want to tell you now.” Some viewers stomped on the platform to communicate with Abramovic, an act that was reportedly prohibited by security early in the evening, but permitted by the time I arrived.

There were, however, enough catch-breaths between her heavy exhales to convince most that she was, indeed, in the room and masturbating; “I am not touching myself this moment, just lying here,” she confided. This was the most boisterously interactive I saw the performances become.

What do we rehearse in watching Abramovic actually cut herself, whip herself, freeze herself? Abramovic’s performance of pain is deliberate, considered, and divorced from any real narrative context.

She shows us blood and pain as matters of fact: wounds open, blood runs, then it dries, the skin begins to heal, and at midnight the audience goes home and you get to put your clothes on.

All performances took place on a white, circular platform positioned in the center of the rotunda. We all chatted gaily, as Marina’s disembodied moans, purrs, and gasps echoed throughout the rotunda.

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