The exhibit presents a very wide spectrum of "documentation." There were, as would be expected, videos and photographs – but there were also instructions, manifestoes, schematic drawings, props, and media coverage (often negative) of performances.
Upon entering, in fact, no video was visible, which was disappointing at first. But by the time JJS reached the end of the exhibit and had looped around again, it was clear that video is often not the best way to experience archival, non-proscenium performance art. In fact, some of the videos were somewhat alienating – you can feel as though you're missing out on the energy of the work or its relationship to its social, political, or temporal context. Surprisingly, an object can sometimes convey more of the performance's energy.
For instance, seeing the shiny, 8+foot-long blonde wigs worn by twins in an interactive performance bring the work more alive than a black and white photograph of the performers. Similarly, a typed manifesto from the 70s provides insight in to the performers' perspective and goals that may not be obvious in a video.
Many of these non-video artifacts were probably exhibited because video from the 40 years of the works was not available. But even when it was available, video was often not ideal. Most of the performances were not in theaters, so the lighting and sound were often bad. And because many public performances – and the responses to them – are unscripted, the videographer can have trouble keeping up with the action. Ironically, objects and media that are incapable of capturing the full audio-visual experience can actually provide a better feel for or sense of the work.
To experience the major video installation of the exhibition, you sit in a chair with two very large screens to your left and right, forming and arc with another directly in front and one behind you. It's digital video surround-style, showing various NYC street scenes. If you get a chance to see this installation, stick with it; after a few minutes you realize each screen shows simultaneous footage of the same location from different angles. Shannon taped the footage by skateboarding through the streets with six hidden cameras. While the artist realizes – and often styles – the very presence of his dis/abled body as a kind of performance, he himself is visible in only one of the sequences. In it, he dances alone, at night, in an empty city intersection. It is a lovely moment, a quiet contrast to the other crowded, bustling street scenes.
The work is itself compelling, but it is also useful for thinking about performance documentation. While Shannon's installation obscures the artist, the performer, and his specific performance, the simultaneous video also highlights the performance of everyday activity, and immerses the viewer in that auditory and visual experience. Because the video literally surrounds you, you can feel that you are in the scene and not just watching it.
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So, what is the best way to document performance art? There is not one best way. If the performance is meant for a traditional proscenium stage, then a straightforward video might approximate the live audience experience. (Though I'm sure there was an energy present during, for instance, Yoko Ono's Cut Piece that isn't palpable in the video.) And as compelling as 360° video may be, it is only appropriate and feasible for a small number of projects.
Aside from demonstrating that performance art and other creative "actions" neither originated in nor were dominated by Europeans and North Americans, the greatest achievement of Arte ≠ Vida is to reveal how much notes, schematics, and other physical artifacts can convey the experience of performance art. After all, most of this genre is not meant to be viewed days or years later; it is meant to be experienced immediately, in the zone that artist Gabrielle Civil calls "performance time." Those of us who miss the actual experience are lucky to get whatever residue or documentation we can.
See: elmuseo.org, virtualprovocateur.com, gabriellecivil.com
