I didn't wear a merkin
From the queue outside I could hear Penny’s voice easily penetrate the darkened windows; but by the time I’d struggled inside, she’d been replaced by a pretty boy singing about boyfriends and being beautiful, or not beautiful enough, or anything else that might engender a little sympathy. The space was far too tiny for all those assembled and shoving streams of self-beatified bodies squeezed through the audience to get to beer. In the basement there were videos on eternal repeat: people slowly sliding syringe needles between knuckles; flesh hooks; a naked woman lying under a pig’s carcass; gaffer tapped limbs and such like. Working out where I could look without seeing sight of pain, I was uneasy in the almost empty basement, and returned upstairs.
When friends called to say they were leaving a pleasant bar to get there, I told them that I wasn’t sure that they should bother, unless they fancied sub-Leigh Bowery cabaret in an overcrowded bar. Then, assembling myself to leave, I was hi-jacked by a bunch of boyz I last saw when playing games on the lawn of The Tate. One of their posse was to be DJing in the basement; but before that, we caught an act put on by the organisers of the event. Two women in rubber nurses uniforms injected pink gloop into an upright hospital bed, from which two white faced men dressed in white girdles and merkins appeared. To the sound of angelic music, they each carved one word into the other’s backs, squeezing the fresh cuts to bleed. Once complete, they stood with backs to the audience, holding hands, in a state of semi-reverie, for their message to be read: FOR EVER.
I don’t like watching acts where ‘harm’ is involved. I feel complicit in the harming by choosing to watch; but the level of cutting in this act, though probably enough to scar, was fairly superficial. However, as with other acts of this nature that I’ve seen, I was uncomfortable with the lack of ceremony and respect that was given over to it: my eyes couldn’t help but notice the grubby hands and dirty nails of these men who loved each other, yet had not enough respect to care for consequence of what they did.
Back to the now busy basement to enjoy the elektro set now playing, dancing soon lightened my mood; although I had to be careful which videos my eyes fell upon: the puffy hand with syringe poking into it hurt my eyes and my insides to look at, and I don’t wish to be inured to such sites. As one who would has often pushed needles into other’s veins; pulled on broken bones that they might be pinned and who once was the first to try to stop the haemorrhaging of a street stabbed man, it might be considered odd that I should act that way; but it’s different when others choose to do these things. I have to assess my own ethical stance at such acts, and while they are not fixed in stone and I’m open to intelligent discussion from those who engage in them, they still cause me a certain sense of unease. I guess I’m a little old fashioned, in that I think there’s a certain sanctity to our bodies (pauses to finish of a bowl of double-cream ice-cream, hahaha); but I also accept that exploring boundaries can be an important, interesting, and sometimes empowering act.