Marina Abramović sits in one of two chairs inside the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. The first of more than 1,000 people sits across from her. Abromović raises her head, meets the gaze.
Some visitors stay for a few minutes of transformative eye contact. Some stay much longer. Some weep.
The artist never speaks, never stands, at 63, all day, every day. She offers only her gaze.
And over the course of almost three months, 850,000 people will gather around the edges of the room, watching, unable to fathom the prospect of facing the artist’s gaze, yet unable to be anywhere else. This kind of connection, this kind of eye contact, is not generally found in New York City.
A composer has lost his wife. A tourist has lost her husband. They return day after day, watching, in awe. They whisper to each other from the periphery. They go to her hotel bar.
And then a ghost swoops in to tell us: No. This is not a love story.
In Heather Rose’s new novel, The Museum of Modern Love, we walk with the (fictional) characters consumed by Abramović’s (real) 2010 exhibit, The Artist Is Present. PLEASE READ
The Museum of Modern Love by Heather Rose, from Algonquin
