Editor: Sofia Leiby
A short story inspired
by the opening evening of ‘Scrying Threats’ Donna Huanca’s exhibition at Queer
Thoughts, 1640 W. 18th
St. #3 Chicago, IL 60608, 9.21.13 – 10.27.13
Samantha cast her eyes down to the pavement as she walked
past the two police officers stationed street-level at the Pilsen Western Blue
line stop. She straightened her canvas
mini-back pack by shrugging her shoulders up.
The chill of evening air over her damp scalp felt colder as she hurried
past them. She felt their eyes on her, but knew that they could not see what
had just transpired.
While waiting for the train she looked down at her
non-descript athletic shoes, and smirked, knowing they concealed the toes that
had just been wiped clean of paint.
She contrasted visual memory with the muscle memory of holding
her bare body in transitory states; leaning, turning, not quite writhing, almost
paused, being natural and secretly showing off. She contrasted the new feeling
of painting with what she remembered the painting to look like.
In her experience, there had been no formal precedent for
this work. Dance doesn’t often collapse
into art with such ease. She knew Donna was
pleased with the work, and Samantha was pleased that this evening had doubled as
a quiet celebration of changes in her own life. Having spent much time on stage, she mused it
strange and obvious that this much satisfaction could unfold from a stage so
difficult to describe.
In the gallery Queer
Thoughts, she had tuned-in her own soundtrack on a hand held radio. Occasional
flips of the light switch by Donna, Sam, and Miguel changed the scene from a
brilliant, crisp wonderland of loose, quivering paintings and fabrics to a
black hole with impromptu day-glo finger paintings floating across the darkened
room, her hair, and face.
The audience’s constant captivation was made more intimate
by the close quarters. ‘Is this space
still a stage?,’ she thought to herself, ‘…or are we somewhere else?’. As they vied for the best vantage she could
feel them questioning if it was in fact okay to look. The politics of each exchange was palpable
and some stayed longer than others. Her own vision was not occupied with their
bodies, but reflections of their shoes by a small, low mirror.
Theatrical audience murmurings further confused the space of
the stage. When an effeminate male voice
admiringly cried out, “Just look at that neck line…” all attention turned
toward her neck, and to him. She knew
that most people there knew her beauty wasn’t the intended focus of the
happening, but for some it was.
As Samantha got on the train she thought it ironic that no authority
could charge her with being victim to her own liberation.
She knows it is impossible to present your-self, or be
presented by someone else, without being made into an object, and yet she
was/is herself.
She sat down, calmly greeting the passenger next to her, and
feeling happy that she had been the one in the room.
Images of the exhibit: http://qtgallery.net/pages/Exhibitions/Donna_Huanca_Scrying_Threats.html
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