Abramovic
The eyes are the edge of the central nervous system. Each day, she sits on a chair in the museum, and, by turns, the others sit in front of her. Some sit with her for hours, others for just minutes. They stare in silence, at silence. There is a crowd around them, and those in line waiting their turn. She does this for months, facing more than a thousand people. Like austere royalty, she wears a long blue dress. And then red. Then white. Like a mirror, she registers each intimacy on the other’s face: wonder, grievance, tears. When a sitter leaves, she lowers her head and closes her eyes. Then she raises her head again, her face serene and scoured at the same time, the eyes nearly black with what they have seen.
Plume: