Marina Abramovic, The House with the Ocean View

Coronavirus is in most ways, completely incomprehensible. The scale of the medical emergency is alone difficult to fathom, let alone when the economic, social, and of course, human tolls are added in. On top of all of this is the rare occasion to consciously experience a historical moment, particularly one that lasts for such an indefinitely extended period of time. As the days begin to lose their divisions, exacerbated further by a news cycle that seems to be infinitely accelerating, I keep returning to a phrase I read that staying home and watching Netflix on the couch is our civic duty, the Millenial equivalent of storming the beaches of Normandy. I can only imagine that the comparison was made in order to comfort people about the uncertainty of quarantine. And yet, these past few weeks have been characterized more by anxiety, restlessness, and unproductivity than a sense of accomplishment that ideally comes with fulfilling a civic duty. It can be difficult then, to square such an individual and gruelingly mundane action, self-isolation, as a collective good, especially as the crisis seems to be worsening.

The blurring of days into each other, only differentiated by more or less panicked boredom, led me to consider our self-isolation alongside endurance art as a practice and more specifically, Marina Abramovic’s 2002 performance, The House with the Ocean View. For the performance, Abramovic lived for twelve days in three interconnected, three-walled rooms suspended above the ground, allowing the audience to observe her as she moved between the bathroom, bedroom, and study. She did not read, write, or eat for the duration of the performance, only allowing herself to drink water. In this extreme act of ascetic isolation and vulnerability as spectacle, Abramovic created an atemporal, meditative space. Opening just a little over a year after 9/11, the performance offered an escape from the confusion and fear of the period. Viewers were invited to spend as much or as little time as they’d like in the space, appreciating the silence and mundanity of the performance. A telescope at the center of the gallery allowed the audience to view Abramovic up close. However, the viewers were physically prevented from reaching the suspended rooms. Though each room had a ladder leaning against it leading to the gallery floor, the rungs were made of upturned butcher knives. This is the ultimate paradox of the piece: though Abramovic’s goal was to include the audience in her monastic space, if the two parties were to ever actually interact, either verbally or physically, the spell would be broken. It is this tension between isolation and interaction that resonates for me in the current moment.

What Abramovic’s piece seems to suggest, as relevant now as it was in 2002, is that isolation need not be just an escape from engagement with the complexities and dangers of the outside world. Rather, the loss of a delineated sense of time and external distractions can be productive in their own right. At minimum, stay inside and watch Netflix; after all, it is your civic duty. However, this moment is unprecedented. Instead of bringing the distractions and anxieties of the world inside, lean into the isolation. I will not be forgoing food for twelve days but I am trying to embrace this new rhythm of time. Already, I feel that I have begun to think of each day as a new, isolated beginning instead of as the day after yesterday and before tomorrow. It is possible I will only come away with a new enthusiasm for watching paint dry but perhaps the patience and self-assuredness needed to enjoy such a monotonous act will be rewards in and of themselves.

Sampson Ohringer

Chicago, April 2020

Miguel GutierrezMay 19, 2020