Inspired by my crazy adventures as a performer on the road,
this is the story
of two performance artists who cook up the ultimate performance: to kidnap their
billionaire boss...and turn him into the wildest
performance artist the world's ever seen.
…So much, in fact, that he apparently lifted passages verbatim from my performance art manifesto for his recent “performance art plagiarism” on Twitter.
If this whole drama is news to you, it really started in late 2013 when the world learned LaBeouf had plagiarized word-for-word from Justin M. Damiano, a comic by Daniel Clowes, for LaBeouf’s short film Howard Cantour. Caught red-handed, but determined to laugh off his asininity, LaBeouf presented a mea culpa through plagiarized apologies on Twitter, then did a little skywriting, and then offered the excuse that this had all been “metamodernist performance art” — that, oh you know, his charmed life is really just a performance art piece — all of which climaxed with a final twittering of performance art aphorisms that read almost like a performance art manifesto. An astute tipster googled some of LaBeouf’s tweets, and lo, discovered they’d been lifted straight from the performance art manifesto on my web site, as well as from writings of performance artist Marina Abramovic and others.
You can check out his (un)original tweets, my manifesto (originally published in 2009 as evidenced by Archive.org), or compare them side-by-side. As payment for my writerly services, I won’t object if Shia wants to buy a few thousand copies of my novel when it comes out April 10th. I’ll even sign each one (unless, of course, he’d prefer to sign my signature himself? Ha).
I’ve received buckets of sympathy from supporters & cohorts, which I truly appreciate. Sincerely: thank you for having my back.
But I need to say for myself: I’m not without a sense of humor, nor do I lack appreciation for pastiche, sampling, intertextual play, remaking, invoking past influences, and the like; these are how humans push ideas forward.
I was reminded today (thanks, Mark Axelrod) that French-American writer Raymond Federman termed this kind of textual borrowing “playgiarism” to distinguish it from less artful, more insidious brands of thievery:
“To answer the question once and for all. I cannot explain how Playgiarism works. You do it or you don’t. You’re born a Playgiarizer or you’re not. It’s as simple as that. The laws of Playgiarism are unwritten. Like incest, it’s a taboo. It cannot be authenticated. The great Playgiarizers of all time — Homer, Shakespeare, Rabelais, Diderot, Rimbaud, Lautréamont, Proust, Beckett, Federman — have never pretended to do anything else. Inferior writers deny that they playgiarize because they confuse Plagiarism with Playgiarism. It’s not the same. The difference is enormous, but no one has yet been able to explain it. Playgiarism cannot be measured in weight or size. It is as elusive as what it playgiarizes.
Plagiarism is sad. It whines. It cries. It feels sorry for itself. It apologizes. It feels guilty. It hides behind itself.
Playgiarism on the contrary laughs all the time. It exposes itself. It is proud. It makes fun of what it does while doing it. It denounces itself.
That does not mean that Playgiarism is self-reflexive. How could it be? How can something reflect itself when that itself has, so to speak, no itself, but only a borrowed self. A displaced self.
If this is getting too complicated, too intellectual, too abstract, then let me put it in simpler terms — on the Walt Disney mental level: Playgiarism is above all a game whose only rule is the game itself. The French would call that plajeu.”
Lit critic Larry McCaffery writes about 3 kinds of plagiarist hoaxes: the kind intended to remain undiscovered (e.g., forged painting), the kind intended to be detected (via irony or exaggeration), and the third: an exact forgery, but whose “forged nature is built into the project” in the form of a constructed context (the context allows for the forgery to be inferred).
With his list of “playgiarizing” authors above, Federman seems to cover all 3 kinds of hoaxery — plain thievery, artful dodgery, and structuralized disclosure, respectively — but I find these forms of plagiarism to be vastly different from each other on the ethical scale (and on this, Federman is suspiciously quiet). Since le jeu (“the game”) can’t be self-reflexive — it can’t confess, having no self — and in the case where the audience has no idea a game is even being played — the playgiarizing “borrower” is really playing the game alone, and for his or her own gain, at the expense of the author who did all the work.
My guess is that Shia intended to succeed, through hubris or ignorance, in the first kind of hoax with his film’s brazen theft of Daniel Clowes’s comic. After that embarrassing & expensive failure, he stumbled upon the third kind of hoax through trial and error, creating a “constructed context” by accident, insofar as his listless celebrity aura, stuttering initial apologies, and reputation as a goof quickly made it unbelievable that he’d authored any of the tweets — his ham-handedness became the context in which we no longer believed his claims of authorship. And thus, his tweetfest devolved into dorky, eye-rolling postmodern pastiche — what Fredric Jameson called the “emergence of a new kind of flatness or depthlessness, a new kind of superficiality in the most literal sense” — which was ironically (and accidentally) fitting for a celeb — and especially one trying to confidently bullshit his way forward in spite of total inexperience.
In short, I guess I take issue less with going uncredited as part of an art project, and more with being part of a failed “artist’s” blind grasp at justification for his own initial ethical failure. It just feels kind of icky.
“The moral of this story: Your enemy is not necessarily the one who shits on your head. Your friend, however, is not necessarily the one who pulls you out of the shit. And besides, one should never twitter when one is buried in shit.”
With his willingness to clumsily screw artists everywhere, it’s no wonder “Shia LaBeouf” is an anagram for “I Has Oaf Lube.”
First things first: the 100 Performances for the Hole at SOMArts January 4th in San Francisco killed, with 100 consecutive performers each doing a 4-minute piece in a 4-foot concrete hole in the gallery’s floor. The crowds were amazing—half drunk and game for anything, their numbers ranged from 200 to 400 at any given moment. My inner art critic felt there wasn’t enough site-specific attention paid to the hole by the performers generally, but there were some amazing spectacles nonetheless, with one of my favorite pieces being “Bare Suit” by 100-Hole veteran, Pete Ippel.
My piece, Echolocation for the Unconscious, involved a quick rundown on the history of the mischievous Greek nymph Echo, tips for measuring echo distances in time and space (the distance from yourself to yourself), and then my following my echoes down into the concrete rabbit’s hole with the aid of a rappelling harness and rope. Fortunately, the far end of the rope was held tight by my pals Ryan and Patrick, two super-strong dudes. But unfortunately, the ground was slippery from a prior band of performers who’d sprayed the floor with tissue paper confetti. When the time came to rappel, my helpers slipped on the paper, causing me to fall 4 feet (almost) flat on my face…but it looked great. I only suffered a busted-up thumb and a pulled shoulder. And in its drunken exuberance, audience members began echoing everything I said almost from the beginning—sometimes a few people, other times hundreds—the sound was gorgeous. No doubt, somewhere Echo was laughing her ass off off off.
BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY: I just learned that the bound galleys for Two Performance Artists have arrived! They’re large & sexy, a full 8.5 x 11″ for easy reading, and available in E-formats also for Kindles, iPads, and all the rest. If you’re a book reviewer, hit me up for your copy! The novel comes out April 10th—just three months away!
SQUEALLLL! I just found out I’ve been selected to perform at the 4th annual 100 PERFORMANCES FOR THE HOLE show Saturday, January 4th at SOMArts in San Francisco! If you haven’t heard of this, it’s crazy: 100 performers each perform a 4-minute piece in a 6′ x 4′ hole in the gallery floor. That’s right: A HUNDRED PERFORMANCES BACK-TO-BACK! The show’ll run from about 6PM until at least 12:30AM. If you live for experimental performance, DO NOT MISS THIS! My 4-minute slot starts at 11:34PM. It’s gonna be wild! Tickets are $12 in advance, or $25 for VIP (includes free beer!). If you live in SF, I’d LOVE to see you there! General info is here, and tickets are on sale here.
I opened the email and there it was: “Kirkus has just published its review of your novel.” Oh god. My first review! I instantly felt nauseous.
I’ve long tried to mentally brace myself against the people who don’t like performance art, who aren’t interested in caper novels, or the ones who simply revel in burning novels to the ground…but I really, really was praying that my first review wouldn’t be a pan. I wanted a kind omen—just one—for the start.
I read it as fast as I could. And, to my joy, the review was generous & kind. OMG, relief.
The reviewer’s main beef was with the plotting, which Kirkus found to be indelicately paced, given my tendency to pile on more and “more craziness until the proceedings implode.”
I had to disagree—not because I think I’m innocent of crazy-piling, but because doing so was entirely appropriate for the story. Because it’s a madcap novel. Really, what caper comedy doesn’t pile on the craziness? It’s entirely appropriate. And what performance art piece worth its salt isn’t at least a little wacko? I applauded the spirit of the critique, but felt it was a bit of a straw man; given my subject matter and genre, I’d say the reviewer missed his mark by an inch on this point. I’ll take crazy. Absolutely.
That aside, the rest of the review was swoon-worthy: “raucous debut satire…whip-smartprose…a fertile, scabrous comic imagination that feels like a mashup of Rain Man and Fight Club.” Rain Man and Fight Club? YESSS!
Of course, he left out 9 to 5, Pulp Fiction, One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, A Clockwork Orange, Sneakers, and The Burbs, but Kirkus, I so forgive you. Hahaha
This Friday I’m unveiling ECHO, a brand new performance art piece about trusting your own voice. The lineup also includes John White (my art mentor and performance art god), PLUS the first public showing of my novel’s video trailer, PLUS get a free, limited edition Two Performance Artists bookmark! At the Sylvia White Gallery 5x5x5 Show in Ventura, CA, 1783 East Main Street. 8PM (but it gets packed, so arrive early). Free admission!
Update: I traced my feet, diagrammed echo math, and ate glass. Photos are up!
In a protest against Russian apathy, political indifference, and police brutality, performance artist Pyotr Pavlensky stripped nude yesterday in Moscow’s cobblestone Red Square, sat down, and nailed his scrotum to the ground.
Pavlensky’s act kicked gossip rags the world over into high gear, but amid all of the salacious chatter and gawking at the “freak in the square,” the poignancy of the performance is getting lost.
Following on the heels of Pussy Riot and announcements that social media will be banned at the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics, Pavlensky’s incredible piece (no pun intended) shines a spotlight on Putin’s desperate but heavy-handed efforts at silencing not only dissent, but any form of expression deemed potentially threatening to the state.
We should all take heed that when a state-ordered gag has been in place for as long as Russia’s, people on the street begin to forget what unsanctioned language sounds or looks like. Which, of course, is what the State wants: to make the unsanctioned literally unthinkable, in every sense of the term.
Watch the reactions of crowds to Pussy Riot, and of the police to Pyotr. Onlookers don’t just seem surprised; they look positively bewildered, like natives witnessing the sudden arrival of an interloper whose culture is so foreign, so unimagined, and so dangerously unpredictable, that they can’t, at first, move. Even after getting their bearings, the spectators remain reluctant to approach the message-bringers; even the politsiya sniffing around Pyotr are careful not to get too close.
This reminds me of J.G. Ballard’s dystopian story, “The Concentration City,” in which a student named Franz journeys into unmapped territories of the City despite the State’s bureaucratic claims that the metropolitan space extends infinitely in all directions and contains no unmappable areas; the existence of anything that has not been characterized officially by the State is denied.
Pussy Riot and Pyotr are effective precisely because they show up at officially mapped locales, but then present language that falls outside of what has been deemed possible by the State. Their messages can’t be contained because they’re already on the other side of the State’s hegemonic fence upon arrival; how does one rein/reign in something that’s not even supposed to be possible? (Answer: you send her to Siberia, then pray). Riot and Pyotr are liberating because they call into question the way space and power have been parceled—they prove, in a glint of hope, that not everything has been mapped, which is poison to a totalitarian state.
I was interviewed on TVRadio’s ARTFUL UNDRESS show in Hollywood, where I talked about performance art, my novel, nudity, nakedness, and much more with lovely hosts Kira Pandukht and Polina Hryn. You can watch the whole interview online here. Thanks, Kira & Polina!
“For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with howls of execration.” —Meursault, just before the guillotine . . . . . . and every performance artist’s dream.
It’s been crazy since July when we began shooting the novel’s trailer, but the footage is DONE and editing is well underway. The HD & 35mm footage are stunning, thanks to the cast & crew & lab.
But more importantly, the novel’s interior layout has begun, and the cover art is complete—I can’t wait to hold the first copy in my hands! Early reader quotes have also been pouring in. The latest, from Marc Wilmore, Writer & Producer of The Simpsons: “A well-written, hilarious adventure I’d recommend to anyone.” Holy shit, I’ll take it!
I just finished watching Jack Smith and the Destruction of Atlantis, an incredible documentary from 2006 by Mary Jordan on performance art forefather, Jack Smith. I’m an idiot for not having watched this sooner. If you’re a fan of Jack Smith—or of Warhol, Fellini, John Waters, Jonas Mekas, or if you’re an artist or an art patron or a wacky postmodernist—trust me, it’ll blow your mind, witnessing Smith’s influence on pretty much all things art. No doubt, he was a god. I dont know if this is official, or how long it’ll stay up, but Destruction of Atlantis is presently on YouTube here.
In a protest against Russian apathy, political indifference, and police brutality, performance artist Pyotr Pavlensky 
I just finished watching Jack Smith and the Destruction of Atlantis, an incredible documentary from 2006 by Mary Jordan on performance art forefather, 
