This piece was performed in a stairwell spanning three stories of an apartment building. The audience stood against the walls, constantly shifting, both to see the performance and/or to get out of the way. I wore no clothes apart from socks and briefs; the audience was without their shoes, by my request. A sound recording that I’d made played for the duration of the performance; it was composed of syllables, portions of what we make into words, repeated. A musique concrete in brief phrases, occasionally creating words, irrelevant and familiar. I moved through the stairwell with an amorphous plaster casting, a solidified nothing, tied with yellow nylon rope, dragging behind me over my shoulder. I carried a ladder into the stairwell, laid it across the stairs so it stood and became its own set of stairs, and then I shifted onto & around the implements. I gnawed on an onion, offered to others but was consistently rejected. I applied an entire bottle of lotion to my face while pacing between those in the staircase. Then I brought a dead, raw fish out from a bag and slapped it across my skin as I moved through the stairwell, past the onlookers. Then, I applied sandpaper to my face, carving away the true layers into a flattened nothing, primed for an exterior that suits others. I pulled the plaster shape closer to me, picked it up and rubbed it corrosively against my face. I’ve created my own blur. A habit.

“Mis-Masked Meaning” builds multiple layers of incongruence, creative forms & platforms, and incomprehension of feelings & tensions. People grade themselves while watching my actions. As I see it, many people don’t realize the extent to which they degrade themselves. I’m serious about what I do in the piece, but I’ve also created an ironic situation. Some people watching the performance are uncomfortable, but some of my actions have shown up before in other places. Obsessions, memes, friendly & harmless jokes. Stairs/stares within stairs/stares. Something that once lived, my hopes that striking myself with this dead object can make me into something. Even though I’m making a joke of myself.