Having only heard and read about, but not experienced, any of Abramović's famous performance works, I went to see the Robert Wilson production of her "autobiography" without too much preconceived expectations of what I should be seeing. I have to admit, experientially, it felt much more like attending conventional theatre than being in the middle of a performance piece. Still, as I took my seat, the sight of three black dogs milling about on stage amidst three "coffins" with the artist's face on them was bizarre enough that it left an immediate impact. The piece did not focus too much on the artist's works (only two black-and-white footage which at different times hovered above the stage, one of a skeleton pressing upon a young woman and the other of a needle moving close, too close, to an open eye, vaguely recalled the bodily violence of A's early works), but much more on her actual life: family history, childhood, love affairs. In fact, the most poignant moment seems to be about her bidding goodbye to her work, her presence becoming an apotheosis, from martyr to symbol to saint. Her presence throughout the piece seems strangely distant, almost immaterial. Is the artist now absent?
What left the most impact on me, not surprisingly, were Antony Hegarty's beatific voice soaring into the ether and Willem Defoe's indefatigable presence as the narrator who sometimes got into the middle of the action, whether as a dancing Serbian officer or A's one time lover and collaborator Ulay. Still, I was greedy for more. The production was truly a feast for the eyes and ears, but the rest of my body both dreaded and wanted more, but it was mostly left alone.
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