Anna Syczewska

A pyramid of rotten tomatoes and a motorized wheelchair greet us as a sample of music, like tortured cows over an industrial beat, loops over the sound system. The wheelchair slowly turns and we are under the indifferent gaze of Anna Syczewska. She sits on her throne in aviators, white gloves, with a bottle of wine, and cigarettes. She surveys the crowd or perhaps nothing at all. A man dressed in work clothes begins bringing out equipment: boards, bags, buckets, hardshell cases, and finally a large Y-shaped contraption that looks like it's made of steel chains. In a most friendly voice, this man informs us that there will be some welding happening during the performance. We should not stare directly at the light, and if the fumes are too much for us, he suggests that we leave the room. Syczewska lights a smoke and the 'music' is amped up, increasing in speed.

What follows is gloriously unwatchable. Syczewska's feet are lifted onto the Y-shaped sculpture so that her legs are spread above her head. She is wearing a pair of serious pumps, with soles of steel. Worker-man reveals a TIG welder. He proceeds to meticulously attach six long spikes to the bottom of each pump, a time-consuming process that eventually drives most of the audience out of the room. Meanwhile, the sound loop speeds up incrementally, from a D+B break to a dance pop beat, singing something like "LOVE DANCE, LOVE DANCE, LOVE DANCE, LOVE DANCE". The repetition is maddening, and also the sample is infuriatingly out of sync. We are all bored to tears, sick of the noise, sick from fumes, waiting for the process to be over. People leave, chat, read, nap, and text message. Syczewska is impassive. The Duchess is getting her pedicure, and she doesn't care how long it's going to take. We wait.

I go outside for some air, and someone shouts out that the last spike is being welded. Assistants quickly clear away all the welding gear and the music fades out. In the wheelchair, Sychzewska inches up to us and does a little spin. Approaching the tomatoes, she runs over a few, selects one from the top of the pile. Music fades in and thank god it's something different. Really happy, exciting music, maybe Spanish. With great effort, she begins to stand. Her legs are shaking from strain. Precariously, she runs the tomato along her thigh down to her ankle. We all expect her to somehow stomp through the pile, but no. She tries to ease herself back into the wheelchair, falls, twists her foot. The fall looks really painful.

Again donning her spiky heels, Syczewska returns to the wheelchair, backs up, and indicates to us that we should clear the way. We quickly make a passage, moving aside our chairs. Joyful music pumping through the air, Syczewska guns it down the aisle, driving her feet straight into the wall. Her shoes are embedded there, left to remain for the rest of the festival, ominous, glamourous.

- stacey ho