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.
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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.
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