ABSTRACT
Wlad is pacing the studio, eyes glazed, a large table full of jumbled objects in front of him. On it, among the bits of metal and naked flames, are what looks like a chicken carcass, a pile of ash, and some playing cards, and a spike of the sort you used to put receipts on, and a pitcher of water that turns out to be neat vodka. He shifts and sniffs like a dog, rubbing his hands together and spitting on them. It’s very hot, and there is a strong smell of sweat. He barely sees us when we come in, shuffling through the dark space to find somewhere to sit on one of the hard wooden benches that mark the edge of a square of light. He is naked to the waist, wearing a pair of thick workman’s trousers with a huge leather belt, and great big boots, unlaced. His head is newly shaved. For some reason it is already oddly compelling. It’s like entering a cave, or a room in a dream. It seems both uncannily familiar and unsettlingly strange. We wait. I am wondering what it is about Wlad that makes you want to touch him, I mean, to watch him, that thing that makes whatever he does a performance, whether it’s standing by the wall and smoking, which he seems to do for ages, or just walking across to the table—when he moves into action. He walks over, takes a large swig of vodka and then, very carefully, brings his hand over the spike and rams it down so the metal point pierces his skin and then goes right through his hand. There’s a spurt of blood like a red flower, so bright, so vivid, so shocking the effect is staggering. I feel as if someone hit me in the chest, or as if lightning has struck me. I am dumb. Suddenly, in that moment, everything in my life shifts. Time slows down to a stop, and it is so perfectly intimate, and so violent, it is as if he has opened something inside me, something he shouldn’t touch. He looks up, he is white and I think he is going to faint, but it is someone else who faints, a girl in the front row who is so close to him she spontaneously vomits. He is whey-faced but still standing. It is clear he has done this before. “Anyone for a drink?” he says at last, wrapping his hand in a bloody tea towel.
