Performance Art
Statement of Cameron Burnette regarding an unusual art exhibition, November 15th 2023
Look, working in exhibitions wasn't my first pick, okay?
I'd actually studied the renaissance period all the way up through graduate school. I did my senior thesis on The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein. It's a lot more liminal than you'd expect from a piece from the mid-1530s, sure the skull looks stupid as hell when you're looking at it from the front. But that's not really the way you're meant to look at it, is it? The idea is that a person walking down the hall would see a massive 3D skull jumping out at them from the tapestry as they passed by. Art has always been more about decorating a bunch of old rich people's homes anyways.
I'm sure you can imagine my shock to learn that there are no jobs for art history students, most of my classmates went into art education, back to flipping burgers, or back to their parent's big beautiful houses. I spend six months in my old job mounting canvas before I finally landed a part time gig in exhibitions and install for a private gallery. I still work there, so I'd prefer not to specify which one.
It wasn't technically what I went to school for, but I still enjoyed it. I at least got to be around the art, even if I wasn't the one curating it. And I'd always hoped that the position would lead into something a little more permanent. We typically switch out exhibits every two to three months, the rest of the time I spend chopping up exhibit labels and helping the designer mock up the layout. We'd just wrapped up work on a temporary exhibit on mid-19th century American landscape paintings.
Needless to say, it wasn't very popular with guests, I think I got what they were going for but guests aren't going to march up and read the labels for every piece you put out to see how landscapes are social constructs. Nope, they pop their heads into the room, see a couple old dusty paintings of the same picturesque midwestern field, and leave.
So, it came as a bit of a shock to me when they said that we'd help install the components for a performance piece next. I'd never helped install for performances, they're typically downstairs to help pull in crowds. But I was surprised to learn that they'd managed to get Robert Horton for the exhibit. That'd pull in a lot more guests.
I don't know if you've ever heard of him, but he was really popular in the Chicago alternative scene in 2019. He did this piece on the nature of humanity, and our predisposition towards violence. Basically, Horton stood in his boxers in the middle of the exhibit, and there was a table to the side where guests could pick from a paintbrush, scissors, a box of markers, a feather, and a knife. Guests were invited to choose one of the objects from the table and use it on him. The museum was sure to put security in the room to keep anything from getting too weird. The piece ran for a week before some guy sliced open Horton's palm with the knife.
I hadn't heard anything else about him from my friends, they'd always liked that sort of thing more than me. But nevertheless, I'd be installing for a contemporary artist that I'd actually heard of for once.
The pieces arrived early, several large cardboard boxes. I suspected the couriers were brothers, they looked so similar and I swore I never heard either of them speak the entire time. They came in and out of the truck, carrying with them spongy cardboard boxes that seemed much heavier than they should have been.
It occurred to me as we were unloading that I hadn't actually seen a layout for the exhibit. So, I had no idea what we'd actually be assembling today. Regardless of the case, I suspected the actual materials were secondhand to Horton's vision. Why else would he have left them in such a pitiful state?
The cardboard sagged, parting along with my hand when I tried to get a good grip to move them. We ended up having to unpack the entire thing in the loading bay. Each box contained the exact same thing, two metal half-rings, with a wire mesh between them. When put together, the five pieces formed a ring, like a small Ferris Wheel. The pieces were slick, and smelled of rust. No matter which side I tried to grab the rings, I couldn't seem to get a good enough grip. But if any one else was concerned about the very real possibility that we were introducing mold and moisture into the exhibit, they didn't say anything.
We assembled the ring in the middle of the gallery, mounting it like a daisy-table so that it spun. It cut a striking figure against the white of the gallery wall, the rusty smell reminded me of playground cuts and bruises. I could still feel it on me hours later, even after a well-deserved shower.
The next morning, I was supposed to help takedown some ethnographic photography collection. But the moment I entered the building, I felt that same coppery smell settle back onto my clothes. I went back up to the gallery, but both doors were closed. A thin white tarp covered the glass windows into the exhibit, but I saw the outline of a man smearing something on the outside of the rings. He hummed to himself as he worked, an earthy must washed from the room.
I should have said something. Maybe if I did, things would have turned out different. I couldn't focus on the gallery take down after that, I needed to know what he was doing in there.
I went back up after lunch, I couldn't stomach anything it all tasted like dirt in my mouth. This time the gallery doors were open. There were five guests in the room, watching with wide smiles as Horton stood, his head leaning on the ring. He pounded his head into a thick wall of mud he'd smeared on the outside of ring, dragging along a small creased line. He pivoted his head to see me come in, never once removing his body from the mud.
"Where you go, nobody knows." Horton whispered. I took my place in the circle next to a weeping woman.
Horton pressed his whole body against the wall of mud. I thought he tried to stop the rotation of the wheel, but if anything, it went faster. I saw a small trickle of red start to mix into the sculpture from a chafe mark on Horton's cheek. A man from the other side of the room walked up to the sculpture. He placed his arms around it, mimicking what Horton was doing. I don't know why, but that snapped me out of it for a second.
They weren't supposed to touch the art.
The man held onto the statue, mud caking his arms and legs until I could only see the back of his head. They moved one at a time, reaching out with hungry fingers to embrace the slowly growing mound of earth and human flesh. I saw shapes contort in the piece, half-formed thoughts on a potter's wheel. I do not think I could call what remained of Horton a human face.
Eventually it was just the two of us left in the room, a thin ring of red smeared Horton's vase, encapsulating the human spirit. Arms of clay reached out to me, and I wondered if the mud was warm. I do not remember walking up to the wheel, but I found myself embracing it all the same. I was surprised at how quickly the mud stuck to me, warm like clothes that'd just been removed from the laundry.
I don't think we're meant to do half the things we need to each day to survive. Where did we go wrong? Where did I go wrong? It covered my face, which wasn't so much a problem as I didn't need to breathe anymore. I was once again part of the collective, a fraction of a thought in a crowded womb. It felt wonderful, so I don't know why I tried to scream.
I woke up back in the loading bay after that. My supervisor wasn't too happy that I tracked mud throughout the entire loading bay. But I didn't care, I couldn't think of anything but how cold it was out in the open. Needless to say, the exhibit was a smash-hit. I found out later he titled it The Wheel of Fortune. They kept it open for another two months after that. I think a crypto influencer bought the piece afterwards for around $5 million. But I'm not sure that he actually knew or cared what he was buying.
I haven't seen Mr. Horton since, and I'm not in any position to look for another job.
*The archival assistant has included a small sample of mud, allegedly left on the chair when Mr. Burnette left after giving his statement*