I'm in Liv's childhood house. She's a teenager in a dramatic neon get-up, weilding a brush made of wires stapled to a wedge of plywood. She snaps the brush like a whip, dripping a soapy sheet of bubbles. She hangs the suds across a grid of strings like wet music notes. She says it's a John Cage homage but I'm reminded of Ray Johnson's performance where he berrates a cardboard box with his belt. At some point I can't stop myself from eating a melted VHS that's turned into sticky sweet rubber, but it starts to coat my throat and fill my sinuses so I have to make myself throw up. Also babes with fleshy backs playing guitar solos they're desperate to finish like orgasms.
Today furtively combing the web for "Kathy Acker Puppet Adaptation," (I swear I didn't make this up, that I read about it somewhere!) and organizing my gallery of modernist bummer public sculpture for a slideshow presenation coming soon.
Art rule: If your sculpture sucks, make it big. If it still sucks, paint it red.