CHAPTER ÄRR—THEMES 11, 15, 16
August 12th, 1989
Emit Gallery
Lynn Book is a working performance artist, creating original pieces and presenting around the country. Once a year, she phones me with an Ur Sonata opportunity.
School of the Art Institute of Chicago students have gotten hold of an abandoned warehouse in the West Loop, for one night only. They call it Emit Gallery. They’ve lighted the space with a dozen gigantic candles suspended from wood beams. Each candle has six flaming wicks. This gallery of shadows is jammed with a hundred art students. Lynn has also invited a dozen kids from her neighborhood; they sit up front.
Last summer, I bought ten-foot-long, one-foot-wide industrial hoses which we cut, assembled, and wore as costumes for our ten shows at Harry Hoch’s place on Elston, Cabaret Voltaire. We’re wearing our crazy hose-outfits now.
Lynn and I thrive on participation: we get people revved up during the Presto, chanting rhythmically, “Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm, Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm, Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm, Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm, Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm, Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm, Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm, Grimm glimm gnimm bimbimm.” During the development, when I’m ranting like a politician haranguing supporters—“Graaaaa graaaaa, Graaaaa graaaaa,” and ”EkeEke ekeEke ekeEke ekeEke, EkeEke ekeEke ekeEke ekeEke, EkeEke ekeEke Rrrumm! EkeEke ekeEke Rrrumm! EkeEke ekeEke Rrum, Rrum! EkeEke ekeEke Rrum, Rrum! Rrum Rrum Rrum Rrum, Rrum Rrum Rrum, Rrum!”—Lynn is in the audience shouting back, while distributing pieces of gardenhose and handfuls of black-eyed peas. People are spitting peas at me through the hose-peashooters.
The kids go nuts. They’re marching, shouting Ur Sonata, spitting peas.
Dada is supposed to be provocative. Everyone knows this, so, no-one at a dada show can be provoked. But some of these college students don’t like the kids’ unruliness and start walking out.
Most of the crowd stays with us, yelling along. Mid-cacophony, I find myself extending hose-encased arms upward and complaining, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachtani?” No one hears.
Transcendental.
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(The photos below are from our Cabaret Voltaire shows in the summer of 1988.)
