In the gallery, I saw a woman on video shave her pubic hair and later, walk naked through Venice, but it turns out that I missed the best part of another performance piece in which an artist slowly releases a raw egg from her vagina, throws it at the screen where it smashes–as though in the face of the viewer–and runs down the glass looking like cum. I only saw the part where she lifts her pink sheath, exposing herself and then the egg, when He, who had planted a fallen branch with his bare hands in my front yard in the country and crowned it with a rusting fleur-de-lis he bought for $3 at a tag sale, establishing himself as king of my domain, walked in to the opening, barely acknowledging me because, he said later, we had talked on our cells minutes earlier, which, in his mind, gave him reason to deny my existence, making me mad enough to miss not only the egg smashing on screen but another more famous artist pulling a scroll out of her projected wall-size vagina, and, in a black and white video, a naked fat woman bouncing around on the floor.
The Opening
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