Los Angeles 1976.
Suzanne Lacy, the performance art teacher at the Feminist Studio Workshop, perched on a stool in front of the fifteen of us. Her back was completely straight and her thin body didn’t seem substantial enough for the huge multi-layer performances art pieces she did that involved hundreds of people. As usual, she wasn’t smiling. “For next class,” she said, “I want you to create a piece using your body in some way.”
This was easy. By the time we marched out of the room, I knew what I wanted to do: a book documenting my bowel movements. You couldn’t get more physical than that. It only remained to figure out the details, which was the fun part. Plans flew around my head as I drove home to my little apartment on MacArthur Park. I chose the location because other women from the FSW were also living there, and the price was right: $65 a month for a furnished first floor studio, complete with a Murphy bed and bars on the windows.
Suzanne had done a slide show of the history of body art, an early form of performance art from the 1960s and early 70s that had been dominated by men. Their work was marked by shock value. There was Vito Acconci, who stuck his fingers down his throat until he gagged for one performance and in another, masturbated underneath a stage while the audience sat in its seats waiting. Dennis Oppenheim exposed his bare skin to the sun until it was burnt, except for the area covered by an open book. All these performances were carefully documented, of course, to prove that they actually occurred.
Starting in the 1970s, women began to make performance art their own. Like men, they used their bodies as canvases, but instead of challenging physical limitations, they merged autobiographical and personal content with political statement. Eleanor Antin walked the streets of Solano Beach, California, dressed as a king with flowing black beard, rapier, boots and cape. In another piece, she documented her shrinking body while on a diet. Martha Wilson took photographic portraits of her face made up as a male. Hannah Wilke placed miniature vulvas made from gum all over her naked body and photographed them.
I parked by my apartment building and walked over to the Alphabeta Market on Alvarado to get some film. I had also just learned about Chris Burden, who shot himself in the arm and Joseph Beuys, who lived in a room for a week with a coyote and a pile of greasy felt. If they could do those things, I could surely do this: a little handmade book documenting my bowel movements over the next week. It was right up my alley, so to speak.
The next morning I was ready with my camera and notebook, hoping that I could produce something to document. This was not assured since constipation was my ever-ready companion. But I did, after much effort, unload some hard pellets. “Perfect,” I thought, and snapped the picture. I liked the image of the yellow toilet seat and cover, the stained bowl, the white hexagram tiles and the box of generic laundry detergent in the corner.
I ate rice compulsively for 24 hours and was rewarded on day two by a soft long one. I took a close up. “This is a typical rice shit.” I wrote in my notebook. “I obviously hadn’t chewed the rice properly as there are rice bits evident.”
On day three, I woke with a cramp in my intestines and ran from my Murphy bed to the toilet. I wrote. “One’s state of mind contributes to the condition of one’s shit. When I am excited, my bowels become very loose. This is the first installment of three bowel movements over the course of that day.” This photo showed my right knee on the lower right corner as I knelt to take the shot.
Second installment. “I am a little concerned with the amount I am shitting. This yellow ochre color is very interesting.”
Third installment. “I know I have been in a state of nervous excitement, but this is ridiculous.”
Last photo. “Nothing.” I wrote. “I think I am tired of taking pictures of my shit.”
When I picked up my package of wallet-sized pictures with curved corners, the film technician didn’t say a thing. I was so glad I lived in L.A. I mounted the photos on heavy printmaking paper that I had folded into a book and handwrote the text under each photo in red ballpoint ink. Ta-dah!
In class, I was the first to present my work. I leaned back on an old trunk in front of the class and announced the title. “Sh-sh-sh-itting in f-f-f-f-ive m-m-mm-movements.” The whole class erupted with laughter. I turned to the introduction page. “I have been f-f-fascinated by shitting for about t-t-t-t-wo y-y-y-ears, ever since I started p-p-p-aying attention to what I put into my body. So I have b-b-b-been obsessed with what comes out of my body.” I held up the book so everyone could see the shot of my empty toilet and the detergent box. They could hardly stay on their chairs.
I turned the page and read, “I-I-It takes ab-b-b-out th-th-three days–“ The laughter was too loud for me to go on. So I held up the book again and showed the picture of the pellet poop. One women was on her back on the floor kicking her legs into the air. Another was jumping up and down on a chair. Nancy had her head in her lap and her shoulders were going up and down and Jerri was screaming and slapping her hands against her thighs. “I love how you are reading it,” she yelled. Jerri’s performance idea was to live in a hospital bed for a month. I made my mouth into a smile. Either Jerri thought I was deliberately trying to stutter or she just liked it. Suzanne was cool. “Let’s let Anne finish presenting her work,” she said.
After the reading, I somehow got up and made my way to my seat beside Jerri. She grinned at me and mouthed some words. But my heart was pounding so loudly in my ears I couldn’t hear what she said. I pressed my hands on my legs to stop them from trembling and pulled my wet t-shirt away from my sweaty back. One by one the other women presented their projects, but I couldn’t say what they were. All I could do was replay my reading in my head, stutter by stutter. In theory, it was a perfect project. If only I was able to read it the way I heard it in my head, that is. Fluent and not stuttering.
At least they had laughed. I looked up when the other Anne in the class started her piece. She wore a waitress uniform made out of army fatigue fabric and was marching back and forth in front of the class barking out meal orders. “Order up! One egg over easy with rye toast!” I laughed along with the others. Maybe my piece was okay after all.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The Cellar Swing
The cellar at our house in Wayland, Mass was where I kept my record player and records so I could listen to them any time I wanted. It played 45s and 78s, but we mostly had 78s. They were red and orange and blue and green and were heavy and would break if I wasn’t careful. My favorite was the flying song from Peter Pan.
It was morning. I changed into my favorite red and white striped shirt and went down to the cellar. I put the flying song on the record player, got on the swing and started to pump along with the music. Back and forth, up and down I went.
“Think of a wonderful thought, any merry little thought, you can fly, you can fly, you can fly.” I leaned way back and closed my eyes and pulled so hard the muscles on my arms bulged out. I was flying to the music, flying out of the cellar, out of the house and into the big blue sky. With each pump my heart beat harder, and my red and white striped chest grew until I was bigger than the world.
I WILL DO GREAT THINGS IN THE WORLD AND PEOPLE WILL KNOW ABOUT ME. I said this over and over to myself with each swing. Me and Peter Pan were flying together, and I was big and anything was possible.
I was five years old and it was 1957, the same year that my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. King, informed my mother that I stuttered.
It was morning. I changed into my favorite red and white striped shirt and went down to the cellar. I put the flying song on the record player, got on the swing and started to pump along with the music. Back and forth, up and down I went.
“Think of a wonderful thought, any merry little thought, you can fly, you can fly, you can fly.” I leaned way back and closed my eyes and pulled so hard the muscles on my arms bulged out. I was flying to the music, flying out of the cellar, out of the house and into the big blue sky. With each pump my heart beat harder, and my red and white striped chest grew until I was bigger than the world.
I WILL DO GREAT THINGS IN THE WORLD AND PEOPLE WILL KNOW ABOUT ME. I said this over and over to myself with each swing. Me and Peter Pan were flying together, and I was big and anything was possible.
I was five years old and it was 1957, the same year that my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. King, informed my mother that I stuttered.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Owen
Summer 1964. I switched my bicycle gears to low and headed up the short hill to the corner of Bar Neck and Albatross. Even though I took a shower at the beach, salt crystals glinted on my arm and there was a lump of sand grating in my crotch.
When I lifted my head up, Owen and his dad were standing there, waiting, right at the corner. Owen was from my science school class. He was big for 13, with straight black hair and moist eyes. We were studying geology that summer. On field trips we hiked along cliffs and beaches collecting samples of igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic rocks.
Owen held up his hand. “Hi Anne,” he called so loud that a man on the other side of the street turned and looked. I couldn’t pretend not to hear.
“Hi,” I said and braked at the corner. I stood with the bike between my legs and jiggled it back and forth between my hands. It was my first bike, a blue 3-speed that was so balanced I could ride no hands all the way down Harbor Hill Road.
“Been swimming?” Owen’s dad asked. He was even bigger and had the same moist black eyes that hung onto me, as if he were trying to get inside.
I nodded. I didn’t tell them how the waves were big and grey on the Buzzards Bay side today and they knocked water into my mouth as I did laps up and down the beach. I was secretly training for the Olympics. “I-I-I’m pr-pretty cold.” I said.
Owen’s dad squinted his eyes and moved closer. He laid his big white hand on the handlebars of my bike. “Just slow down as you talk,” he said. I stopped jiggling the bike and my heart thumped all alone in my chest.
“Okay,” I said. I nodded and made myself smile a little. You had to humor these people. Make them feel like they were being helpful, even though they didn’t know a thing. I waited for the usual story.
Owen’s dad took his hand off my bike and put it in his pocket. “My uncle stuttered, you know, but now he doesn’t. When he talked, he spoke veeeeeery slooooooowly. It worked. You should try it.”
The tickling began in my chest but I ignored it. Ignoring the tickling was the only way to stop my hands from reaching across the empty space, circling his throat and squeezing hard till all the air leaked out of his body. So I stood there, gluing my arms to my sides and not talking. Not talking slowly for sure. How could I say anything when Owen and his dad were watching my lips for stray stutterings to slip out? Waiting for me to try their cure. Wanting to prove they were right. They weren’t right. I was right. I lived inside this body, this mouth. I knew how it worked. They knew nothing.
In another minute they would start to tell me about how stutterers don’t stutter when they sing and have I ever thought about joining a choir? I ducked my head, gripped the handlebars and placed my right foot onto the pedal. “Bye,” I said and shot off down Albatross the opposite direction of home, going anywhere. The aquarium was on my right with the usual crush of tourists craning their necks to see the seals. The seals only did a couple of things, lie in the sun on their diving platform or swim circles around and around their small pool, but they got attention all day long. I rounded the corner and headed toward the center of town, sliding between parked cars and the slowly moving traffic. The ferry must have just gotten in. There were people everywhere, talking of course. People talk a lot. Can’t they ever shut up? That singing cure stuff was not true. Past the village, I turned right onto Church Street. No cars here, no people either. Just over the bridge was the Church of the Messiah cemetery where Daddy’s parents were buried. I kept going on up the hill, getting hotter and hotter as I pumped.
Nobska Beach had the whitest, smoothest sand in Woods Hole, layered with treasures. Crinkly brown and black seaweed, dried pink and white crab shells, translucent peach-colored jingle shells, smooth black egg cases that looked like they came from the bottom of the sea. I leaned my bike against the changing room building–FOR PRIVATE USE ONLY–and stalked down to the water. There were a few families strewn down the beach and two kids out on the raft. I stood in the water up to my ankles and let the waves suck the sand under my feet. The wind had come around to its regular SW direction again since morning and the grey sky was now blue. The sun hit the white caps dancing on the water. In front of me lay Martha’s Vineyard, an island so big and long it took up the entire horizon. The ferry from Woods Hole to Vineyard Haven was rounding Juniper Point on my right. Another load of people talking too much.
When I lifted my head up, Owen and his dad were standing there, waiting, right at the corner. Owen was from my science school class. He was big for 13, with straight black hair and moist eyes. We were studying geology that summer. On field trips we hiked along cliffs and beaches collecting samples of igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic rocks.
Owen held up his hand. “Hi Anne,” he called so loud that a man on the other side of the street turned and looked. I couldn’t pretend not to hear.
“Hi,” I said and braked at the corner. I stood with the bike between my legs and jiggled it back and forth between my hands. It was my first bike, a blue 3-speed that was so balanced I could ride no hands all the way down Harbor Hill Road.
“Been swimming?” Owen’s dad asked. He was even bigger and had the same moist black eyes that hung onto me, as if he were trying to get inside.
I nodded. I didn’t tell them how the waves were big and grey on the Buzzards Bay side today and they knocked water into my mouth as I did laps up and down the beach. I was secretly training for the Olympics. “I-I-I’m pr-pretty cold.” I said.
Owen’s dad squinted his eyes and moved closer. He laid his big white hand on the handlebars of my bike. “Just slow down as you talk,” he said. I stopped jiggling the bike and my heart thumped all alone in my chest.
“Okay,” I said. I nodded and made myself smile a little. You had to humor these people. Make them feel like they were being helpful, even though they didn’t know a thing. I waited for the usual story.
Owen’s dad took his hand off my bike and put it in his pocket. “My uncle stuttered, you know, but now he doesn’t. When he talked, he spoke veeeeeery slooooooowly. It worked. You should try it.”
The tickling began in my chest but I ignored it. Ignoring the tickling was the only way to stop my hands from reaching across the empty space, circling his throat and squeezing hard till all the air leaked out of his body. So I stood there, gluing my arms to my sides and not talking. Not talking slowly for sure. How could I say anything when Owen and his dad were watching my lips for stray stutterings to slip out? Waiting for me to try their cure. Wanting to prove they were right. They weren’t right. I was right. I lived inside this body, this mouth. I knew how it worked. They knew nothing.
In another minute they would start to tell me about how stutterers don’t stutter when they sing and have I ever thought about joining a choir? I ducked my head, gripped the handlebars and placed my right foot onto the pedal. “Bye,” I said and shot off down Albatross the opposite direction of home, going anywhere. The aquarium was on my right with the usual crush of tourists craning their necks to see the seals. The seals only did a couple of things, lie in the sun on their diving platform or swim circles around and around their small pool, but they got attention all day long. I rounded the corner and headed toward the center of town, sliding between parked cars and the slowly moving traffic. The ferry must have just gotten in. There were people everywhere, talking of course. People talk a lot. Can’t they ever shut up? That singing cure stuff was not true. Past the village, I turned right onto Church Street. No cars here, no people either. Just over the bridge was the Church of the Messiah cemetery where Daddy’s parents were buried. I kept going on up the hill, getting hotter and hotter as I pumped.
Nobska Beach had the whitest, smoothest sand in Woods Hole, layered with treasures. Crinkly brown and black seaweed, dried pink and white crab shells, translucent peach-colored jingle shells, smooth black egg cases that looked like they came from the bottom of the sea. I leaned my bike against the changing room building–FOR PRIVATE USE ONLY–and stalked down to the water. There were a few families strewn down the beach and two kids out on the raft. I stood in the water up to my ankles and let the waves suck the sand under my feet. The wind had come around to its regular SW direction again since morning and the grey sky was now blue. The sun hit the white caps dancing on the water. In front of me lay Martha’s Vineyard, an island so big and long it took up the entire horizon. The ferry from Woods Hole to Vineyard Haven was rounding Juniper Point on my right. Another load of people talking too much.
Monday, June 18, 2007
How to Stutter
Step 1
Vow that you will never, ever, under pain of death, stumble or hesitate while speaking.
Step 2
Affirm that mistakes of any kind while speaking are not allowed.
Step 3
If you do make a mistake, be convinced that your worth as a person is determined by your ability to never make them.
Step 4
Did I mention that this in particular applies to speaking mistakes?
Step 5
Speak only when you are assured that no stuttering will occur. That rules out giving speeches, becoming a TV news anchor or telling hilarious stories at parties where impressing people is essential. This leaves only talking to babies, pets, and plants.
Step 6
Whenever a stutter does reveal itself, avoid looking at anyone within earshot, in case they have that horrified expression on their faces or, worse, are laughing out loud. Though what they are laughing at is beyond me. Whenever I hear someone stutter I want to scream and run out of the room; laughing is very far from my mind.
Step 7
Feel amazed that non-stutterers don’t avoid you, at least as far you can tell. You never know, they could be pretending to like you.
Step 8
But here is the most important thing: whenever you stutter, especially the times when you have a big messy block or repetition, tell yourself over and over until there are no other thoughts in your mind, that you are a bad, repugnant person who should die, as soon as possible, if not before.
Step 9
These steps are foolproof and, if followed, are guaranteed to make almost anyone stutter. Good Luck.
Vow that you will never, ever, under pain of death, stumble or hesitate while speaking.
Step 2
Affirm that mistakes of any kind while speaking are not allowed.
Step 3
If you do make a mistake, be convinced that your worth as a person is determined by your ability to never make them.
Step 4
Did I mention that this in particular applies to speaking mistakes?
Step 5
Speak only when you are assured that no stuttering will occur. That rules out giving speeches, becoming a TV news anchor or telling hilarious stories at parties where impressing people is essential. This leaves only talking to babies, pets, and plants.
Step 6
Whenever a stutter does reveal itself, avoid looking at anyone within earshot, in case they have that horrified expression on their faces or, worse, are laughing out loud. Though what they are laughing at is beyond me. Whenever I hear someone stutter I want to scream and run out of the room; laughing is very far from my mind.
Step 7
Feel amazed that non-stutterers don’t avoid you, at least as far you can tell. You never know, they could be pretending to like you.
Step 8
But here is the most important thing: whenever you stutter, especially the times when you have a big messy block or repetition, tell yourself over and over until there are no other thoughts in your mind, that you are a bad, repugnant person who should die, as soon as possible, if not before.
Step 9
These steps are foolproof and, if followed, are guaranteed to make almost anyone stutter. Good Luck.
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