I sat on your chair

It was inevitable. They were destined to bump into each other at some point in time. After all they were both active contributers in the arts and were invited to many of the same events.

George had hoped that his breakup with her had been as healthy as he had imagined, but was worried that the time she was given to digest their relationship had soured their sweet ending.

It was the opening of a gallery in Buenos Aires and they had both been invited to show some new work. George opted to reinstall his previous, Three Chair Events and Jenny had decided to show her recently finished piece, Arno. Though the title did not reference him in any direct way, he had a gut feeling that she had incorporated her past relationship into the work as she was known for. He could only hope that they would both be too busy discussing their pieces with patrons and reporters to have a lengthy discussion with one another.

Stabbing a tiny pickle with his toothpick and popping it into his mouth, George turned around and choked a bit. Standing a foot away from him was Jenny. Short and petite, she was wearing mismatched home sewn garments that included a light brown fleece skirt and, sea foam green leg warmers. Her hair was light brown, and cut alarmingly straight, falling just below her shoulders. The first time they met, he had found her charming and quirky, but now, standing dangerously close to him with a rather demented look on her tiny face, he found her odd, and startling.

“Hi George” she said without blinking, “I sat on your chair”.

“Really?” he said, choking on a bit of pickle juice, “Which one?” he continued, producing a half smile.

“The black one” she replied in a breathy voice.

He wasn’t quiet sure how to respond to this, as he had positioned the black chair in the mens bathroom, facing the urinals.

“So, eh, how is everything?” he said, still tasty the vinegar tang of the pickle. It reminded him of their last week together.

“Have you seen my piece yet, George? I sat in yours” she replied.

“Oh, no, not yet...I haven’t had a chance too” he said, “has she blinked yet?” he thought to himself.

“Don’t you want to see my piece, George? You were the inspiration” she answered, tilting her head a bit.

“Right now? Cause I was just trying to get a bite to eat...” he said, gesturing towards the table of hors de’oevres.

She just stood with her head propped to one side and her eyes wide with her question unanswered.

“Okay, sure...” he said, and she promptly turned and started walking out the back door. He reluctantly followed, thinking to himself what would happen if he turned and ran out the door. He could outrun those tiny bird like legs of hers.

They walked through the sea of people, many of whom gestured toward her and whispered to a partner. Others patted him on the back in congratulations for the show. She walked with a stiff fury out the door and into the night. He decided there were far too many people here for him to bolt now. Instead, he trailed a good eight feet behind her.

They came to a halt in front of the water, and stood on a small muddy hill. There were others around them, watching her words change from one language to the next and talking softly over the sounds of soft water.

“I breathe you” she said. “I talk, I smile, I touch your hair, you are the one, you are the one, who did this to me, you are my own...” she turned to look at him.

“I, uh...” he said pushing his lips out in confusion. His brow furrowed as he avoided eye contact.

“My skin, I cannot breathe, I cannot eat, I cannot walk, I am crying” she said, still not blinking.

“It’s, uh...” he mumbled.

“La Guerra, Comenzara en secreto, el romanticismo, en el amor, fue inventado” she said, the words rolling off her tongue. “She fell on the floor”.

“Who?” he asked, startled and turning his head to look at her.

“She tried to be clean, when she died” she quickly replied.

“Oh” he said and looked back at the water. This he remembered from a previous piece of hers. “Was she just reciting lines from her work” he wondered.

“The color of her, where she is, inside out” she continued, “I work the, pause in the night, when no women go about, and no, women come when called”.

“Look, I just wanted to show my chairs again, I didn’t even know you would be here until after I sent them for installation” he said in between her pause.

She cocked her head to the other side, “Before you die?”

“What?” he exclaimed.

“I see your body, on a bed, in the light. Your shirt is open, a suitor’s boast, your chest, admitting devotion, I had not expected, a claim from, a dying man” she fervently spat the words in response.

“It’s a nice piece” he said trying to change the subject. Not that they were having what could be construed as an actual conversation. He thought if he complimented her, he could somehow get out of the situation.

“Ease near me!” She yelled.

With that, he turned and began to walk up the hill. “Why bother” he thought.

“YOU ARE NO FIT, MY MOUTH PROVIDES COMFORT FOR US, BUT THE MILK, IS NO MILK, THE NIPPLE NO BREAST, THE BREASTS NOT MINE!” She yelled up the hill towards him.

He walked through the door, and could think only of the next chair he would paint.

A picture...

.. is worth a thousand words.

... But there is no way I'm going to be that cheeky.



This blogspot image uploader is aggravating to the extreme. Either it squishes my image, or inserts a link that does not thumbnail. Yvonne is not pleased.

Here is a link to the full 800px width one.

What Was That Piece Now?

It was last Friday in early morning, and I was on my usual morning routine, walking along the crowded sidewalk towards my office. Although the city was bustling and noisy as usual, it certainly was a beautiful morning. Ironically, I never really enjoyed walking through the streets of New York City before, but fortunately on the day before that morning I had received a huge promotion in my work and an extra bonus in cash, so I was in my best mood in months. There was a swift, cool, morning breeze during that morning(which happens to be my favorite weather during morning), which made my start of the day even better. Before going to the office, I decided to stop by my favorite coffee shop and enjoy a quick meal of coffee and croissant I crave. I sat down at one of the corner tables, ordered the stuff, and began to read the day’s newspaper. When I started my first cup of coffee, someone came and sat behind me, and ordered the same coffee as mine. I continued on, reading newspaper and drinking coffee, and waited for my order of croissant.

After a moment, I finally received my crescent bread. As soon as I was about to take my first bite, I heard a loud tap on the glass window behind me. I glanced to my back, and I noticed that the person who tapped on the window had already made his way into the coffee shop. He rushed towards the man who was sitting behind me with a smile, and the man greeted him to sit down.

“Well, Mr. Mel Bochner, it’s been a long time,” the man said, “Have a seat, my fellow.”

“It certainly has been a long time, Joseph,” Mel greeted back, taking his seat, “Glad to see you here again. What brings you here to New York City again in such a long time?”

“Nothing much particularly,” Kosuth answered, “Just came back to tour around the town.”

Mel Bochner and Joseph Kosuth. Two of the most well-known conceptual artists in America. When I heard them mentioning each other’s name, I was shocked yet glad that two respected artists were sitting right behind me.

“Oh, come on. I know you better than that,” Mel said, “There has to be something for you to come back here without letting me know beforehand. And don’t tell me your drifting mind somehow led you here . . . I mean, I know that you daydream often, but you always know where you are and where you go to.”

Joseph smiled and said, “Hah, I guess I can’t go around and fool my old colleagues,” he paused, and continued, “The truth is, I got invited to come and lecture about one of my old artworks at School of Visual Arts.”

“School of Visual Arts?” Mel asked, “Isn’t that the place you studied fine arts in?”

“Yes, back in the old 60s,” Kosuth answered, “It’s a bit nostalgic, and brings back some wanted and unwanted memories.”

“Guess that proves how time flies by,” Mel said, “Back then you were just another student, and 40 years later you are invited to be a lecturer. Feels like 40 years passed by like they were yesterday and the day before.”

Kosuth agreed, “It sure feels that way.”

Mel continued with questions, “Anyways, what did the school ask you to lecture? It must be something quite big for them to invite you to be their guest lecturer.”

Kosuth hesitated for a moment, then answered, “Well, nothing too big. I am to lecture about my one of my old works, One and Three Chairs.”

“The one and what?” Mel asked. He sounded like he just heard something he has never heard before. That was weird, because even I, who don’t know much about art, have heard and seen that artwork before.

“One and Three Chair,” Kosuth answered, surprisingly without any concerns for Mel being shocked, “It was a piece I made back in the 60s when I was studying at the school.”

“Well, what kind of work was it?” Mel asked again.

“Well, you remember how I daydreamed a lot back then?” Kosuth said, “I was caught in a daydream one day, and a chair came into my sight, and I began to think ‘Oh I have to make something out of that chair’ so I started to make something out of it.”

“So what was it that you made?” Mel continued asking.

“I took the chair home,” Kosuth continued, “searched for its definition, took a photo of it, and placed them next to the actual chair that I had taken.”

“Huh . . . and what was the meaning behind all that?” Mel asked, “I know that you daydream a lot, but I also know that you are a deep thinker.”

“It’s representation, Mel,” Kosuth answered, “I wanted to represent each of the three elements to stand as its own meaning, but at the same time representing the object ‘chair’ when combined. Each can stand on its own and still be able to show people what chair is, but when I put the photo, text, and object all next to each other, it became that much more meaningful in its representation of the object ‘chair’.”

There was a moment of silence, until Mel asked, “But why a chair?”

Kosuth answered immediately, “Then why not a chair? The truth is, things like chair are used so commonly everyday that people don’t even realize the importance of them anymore. So in the end, I wanted to take something that is so common and turn it into something special by representing it in three ways so that people would realize the existence of it.”

“Huh . . . interesting,” Mel mumbled, “But why a chair?”

“Didn’t I just answer that right now?” Kosuth answered, a little irritated, “sure I could have used something like a table or a coffee cup, and named my piece ‘One and Three Tables’ or ‘One and Three Cups’, but at the moment, chair seemed to be the most ideological object or the piece.”

There was another moment of silence, and suddenly Mel started to laugh.

“What is it that you find so tremendously funny?” Kosuth asked.

“You know,” Mel started, “What you just have said has reminded me of one of my own works I did long ago, and the fact is, the idea for that piece was very similar of that of yours.”

“Oh?” Kosuth asked, “And what was that work?”

“It was called ‘Four Comments Concerning Photograph’” Mel answered, “About blocks, and it was a project for a monument exhibition. Just like you did, I first defined the term ‘block’, but after that I took a different approach and added descriptions that fell into negative direction.”

“Such as?” Kosuth asked again. The table has turned now, and Kosuth was the one asking.

“Oh, such things like why I had chosen photograph to represent a monument, and why someone would do a piece on a monument like that.” Mel answered, “The only thing I feel different about that piece from the one you had mentioned is that mine only had text represented through photography, and yours was separated into three elements of photo, text, and reality.”

“True,” Kosuth said, “perhaps we really did have similar thoughts back then. One way or another, we both came up with something representational to describe an object we were focused on.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Mel said, “Maybe it would be interesting if you created another piece similar to that chair piece you had already made.”

“Oh really?” Kosuth asked, with pitch in his voice, “And what, should I take that chair that you are sitting on right now and call it ‘One and Three Chairs The Second?”

“I’m just kidding with ya,” Mel said, smiling, “I know you are a great artist in the end, and I would respect whatever you make or do as long as it has meaning within.”

And with that, the two artists started to take their leave. By the time they were gone, I had already finished my fourth cup of coffee, and didn’t even realize I was running late for the work. However, I didn’t feel too bad about it, for hearing the exchange of words by two of the greatest conceptual artists was interesting and something that people don’t hear everyday. After my fifth cup of coffee, I rushed to work, and that was that for the morning of last Friday.

The Alien

The alien from planet Europa bought a pair of turquoise Paul Smith shoes that nicely complimented his green bulbous head. His last pair of shoes which, were a lurid shade of purple had done the opposite. They were too bright, eye catching, and had detracted from his good features instead of enhancing them.

As he wandered through the mall searching for a new outfit that would go with his shoes, and also compliment his new shoes, the mall sirens started blaring. Immediately, mass panic and chaos ensued, as shoppers poured out of the shops, and ran to the nearest exits. The alien, simply and calmly, glided into a restroom while screaming, and panicked shoppers ran past.

The restroom door hissed closed behind him, and he walked to the sink counter and placed his hands on the cool marbled stone. Leaning on the counter with the palms of his hands, he started at his reflection in the glass. "It was for the better...the alien government was all so corrupt, and there was no other choice," he thought. He turned on the faucet and splashed the frigid water on his face, and grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket to dry his face with. He then produced a gun out of the inside of his right hand coat pocket, and loaded it. "I hope those wretched humans are doing everything according to plan," he thought. He approached the door and exhaled a huge breath and opened the door.

First Impressions

I was on my way to meet a long time pen pal and friend named, Marina Abramovic. I knew nothing about her besides her interest in doing performance art that was centered around certain rituals, and human gestures. I vaguely remembered she had also mentioned that she taken a certain interest in capturing extreme forms of bodily pain. My stomach tingled and flipped, as I got out of the taxi and walked up the steps to her front door. I did not know what to expect. A deluge of thoughts raced through my mind; "What if she is not like the image you have painted of her from reading her post cards? What if she is doesn't like me? What if she is non-receptive to your... ? What would should I say to her? What if she sends me away? What if she is...." My thoughts trailed off. I closed the gap between myself and the door. I stared at it's rough texture and vivid wood patterns. Inhaling a huge gulp of air, I calmed my jittery nerves, and determinedly knocked on the door. The sound reverberated within the hollow behind it, and I heard heavy, but agile footsteps approaching the other side.

The woman I had been writing to, was nothing like the person I would have expected to open the dusty, crudely hewn wooden door. Marina came out carrying a pile of cow bones with bits of meat still attached to their creamy white, glistening surfaces. I could not help but show my surprise as my eyes came to rest on her bloody cargo. I immediately noted that minute bit information, for the strange and interesting happenings that occurred in my every day life. somehow clarify on kawara's project, the language around it... They were a part of an ongoing series which I was working on called "I Went and I Met." I stared down at the post card that was already branded with the emerald ink. It read , Sept. 29th, 1976 woke up at 5:43 am. I directed my gaze back to Marina's high, cheek-boned face, and her olive skin which was framed by her wavy, glossy, raven-black hair. She had a very strong almost stony gaze that I could tell was intensely scrutinizing me.

__________

I heard the heavy knock from outside the house, and it took me by surprise. I was shocked that On had arrived so early, and was also astonished by the vigor with which the man had knocked. I knew On had mentioned once in a past post card, that he was elderly and had been starting to have back problems. I shook that thought off, and quickly made my way to the door to greet my guest. I mentally chided myself for being so scatter-brained, and not even bothering to put down one of the pieces I had been working on. The bloody meat-speckled bones shifted in my arms as I fumbled to open the heavy door. I was surprised to see an elderly gentleman standing before my on my front steps. Scanning On, I immediately spotted the youth and vigor that kept him youthful on all his travels. There was a fire of life that burned brightly behind those rich mocha-brown irisis. The spark that lurked there, posed a stark contrast to his wispy hair that billowed from the top of his balding head, and his wrinkled skin. On's small, round, gold-rimmed spectacles, gave him the look of intelligence, owing to his years of travel, and the experience he already had on this earth. I could feel On's gaze burning over me, and then watched as his eyes widened in a bit of surprise, as his gaze flickered over the bloodied mess. Even after witnessing this carnage, On still managed to formally bow to me and say, "Nice to met you Ms. Abramovic." I looked downwards at my bloodied cargo, and without thinking, stuck out my hand to shake his, in an automatic reaction. On stared at me, and then at my blood drenched hand. I retracted my hand stupidly realizing that I still carried the bloodied project in my arms, and returned his greeting by saying, "Uh...pleasure having you Mr. Kawara," I felt like a dumb school girl, that had failed to follow directions. I wanted to melt into the shadows behind me. An awkward silence ensued between the two of us. I broke it by goofily saying, "Well...come on in."

__________

Before Marina walked further into the house, she walked sideways towards a large star that was glistening in the sunlight. I caught the strong pungent oder of petroleum. Marina then produced a match pack, bent down and struck the match alight. Marina slowly extended her hand, holding the small flame towards the gassed-up star. I watched careful as the small flame exploded to life, and quickly ran around the outline of the star, emblazoning it with a soft orange glow. I wondered if this could this be one of the rituals Marina had vaguely mentioned in one of her dated post cards? Mariana did not stop there. She dipped her fingers into a small ornate jar that was on a small stone pedestal near by the fiery star, and produced what looked like clippings of nails, and locks of hair. Marina then gently threw the mixture into the flame. I watched as the mix came in contact with the flames licking the star's outline, bursting forth into a miniature flaming inferno. Marina had stepped backwards from the fire, and closed her eyes. I watched her enter a meditative state. I turned my gaze back into the writhing flames. Somehow, there was a calming and peaceful aura that pervaded from the potentially destructive force. It reminded me of meditative Buddhist practices back in my home country, Japan. There I stood besides this woman I had barely just met in person, but had known for a few years through written letters and postcards. Somehow Marina felt familiar and foreign at the same time. We both stood peacefully just beyond Marina's frond door unwinding, and soaking up the cleansing qualities that the soft orange glow offered.

The Show

(Plays the Joel Youkhanna Show theme)

Me: Welcome back to the show, everyone. Recently, there has been a resurgence of a unique art movement known as "Minimalism." Minimalism, as a few of our viewers might know, was at its pinnacle in the 1960s to the 1980s. But, as of late, it has been weening in the art spotlight. Today, we have two world-renowned artists with me to discuss the art of minimalism. To my left is Mel Bochner, famous conceptual minimalist since the 1970s, and George Brecht, the man behind the famous New York Avante-garde "Three Chairs Event." Gentlemen, thank you for coming onto the show.

(The audience cheers)

Bochner: Thank you for having us.

Brecht: Yes, thank you.

(The two sit down in the smooth, leather chairs in the middle of the studio room. The studio is set up for the Joel Youkhanna Show, an art appreciation and theory talk show, with Joel Youkhanna as the host. The fake walls are lined with various of random artworks, to accentuate the image of the show. The television cameras position themselves to capture Bochner and Brecht, as they sit in their mahogany-colored chairs. Joel smiles at the two artists, tapping his papers on his desk.)

Joel: So, gentlemen, we are here today to find show the works of a few minimalist artist's works. For the sake of those without a art history degree, what is Minimalist art, and how would minimalist art differentiate itself from other forms?

Bochner: Well, Joel, Minimalism is exactly what it sounds like. It is a style of art where the work is stripped down to its most fundamental features. Minimalist art only uses what is necessary, and that's it.

Joel: So, for a minimalist piece... less is more?

(Bochner and Brecht laugh)

Brecht: Essentially, yes. A good example of minimalism would be an argument that proponents of “intelligent design” like to use called “Irreducible complexity”. Irreducible complexity is the theory that a single system which is composed of several parts that form to a basic “machine,” where the removal of any one of the parts causes the system to fail. Minimalism art is similar to that. We try to produce art that is reduced down to its core principle and idea.

Joel: Well, the reason why I asked, is to lead to a piece of yours, Mr. Bochner.

(Joel lifts up a picture of Mel Bochner's “Minimalist Art- The Movie.” It is a picture of a torn piece of notebook paper, with various minimalist artists linked to specific movie actors and actresses)

Bochner: Ahh haha, yeah. That was a little idea I had in 1966. I thought about who I would want to have each actor play as a specific person.

Joel: With his star studded cast, I would LOVE to see this movie, I mean, your movie idea has nearly every famous actor and actress of the time; Sean Connery, Frank Sinatra, Elsa Martinelli. The one connection I found was interesting was you, Mr. Bochner, being played by Peter Fonda.

(The back video projection screen reveals the pictures of Peter Fonda and Mel Bochner, side by side, as the two pictures go transparent overlapping each other, as the audience cheers for Bochner)

Joel: Now, you don't have the sideburns (Audience laughs), but you do have a pretty close similarity going on look-wise with Peter Fonda. Was that your main motivation, or do you have another connection to the actor?

Bochner: Well, I have always loved what Peter Fonda stood for, in terms of his morals and standards. He was the nonconformist, the rebel, the inner desire of speaking out for what is right. Hell, I think it was only a few months apart when I had my “Working Drawings And Other Visible Things On Paper Not Necessarily Meant To Be Viewed As Art”exhibit, as he was being arrested for the Sunset Strip riots in the summer of 1966. I always admired his strength and convictions. I also happen to be jealous of those sideburns as well. (Audience laughs)

Brecht: Haha, well, what I found interesting was that you put Sean Connery in the role of Donald Judd. Donald Judd would have killed us for calling him an “artist.” Although, I don't doubt that Sir Connery would do a remarkable job.

Joel: Any man who can play 007 like Sean Connery could do any role. Now, was this idea something you actually wanted to pursue, or just an idea of fancy?

(Bochner laughs)

Bochner: Oh no no. I had never thought, or even attempted beyond the writing of that paper, to continue that idea. But, in my mind, I could see how it would play out. In the movie, I would have all of the artists doing their separate projects for a large minimalist show, but having it canceled right at the last minute. The artist would then get together against the funding committee, and challenge how Minimalist art was just as influential and important as any other art style. But, I am decently not some big-shot director or anything. Cecil B. DeMille, I am not (Audience laughs).

Joel: Well, Brecht could do the soundtrack for you.

Brecht: Well, maybe. But my style of music mostly focus more avant-garde if anything. I did a few things with with violins back with the “Flute Solo” performance, but my music would be more background sounds anyway. So, if you want me, put me as your background sound mixer, or something.

Joel: Well, that is all the time we have for tonight. Again, thank you both for coming onto the show.

Brecht: It was a pleasure.

Bochner: Definetly.

Joel: And thank you, America, for joining me tonight in understanding the works of Mel Bochner. Tune in next week, as we analyze Video games, and how the growth of the industry will eventually lead to the beginning of video game “high art.” This is Joel Youkhanna, saying “Good night.”

"The Michael Tonight Show" with Betye Saar and George Brecht

Two artists have agreed to sit down and discuss their work on the "Michael Hunter Tonight Show." Each artist will let us into their minds and carry out the background and knowledge that went into their piece. First, here is a brief introduction of each artist.

George Brecht, born George Ellis MacDiarmid, is a conceptual artist who has done a piece involving three chairs. His work often involves his audience to do all the thinking on their own. Today he will describe to us his intentions for this piece and will let us in on how he came about doing this.

Our next guest goes by the name Betye Saar. She is an American artist who has earned her degree in design at the University of California in Los Angeles. She also has her graduate studies in education and printmaking at Pasadena City College and California State University, Long Beach. She has devoted most of her work studying the African-American Culture and creating assemblages based on certain cultures and stereotypes.

We now welcome both of our guests for the day!

Michael: Evening George! Evening Betye!

George: Evening Michael! It is a pleasure being on the show.

Betye: Evening Michael! It is also a pleasure.

Michael: Oh, the pleasure is all mine. Thank you for your time and coming on the show to discuss your work. Now, Betye I would like to start with you. You do all kinds of pieces related to african-american culture. What inspired you to do this piece of "Black Girl's Window?" In this piece we see a dark, silhouette figure pressing her face against the window pane with her hands also pressed against the pane. We are able to see her eyes but nothing else. Tiny stars and moons decorate her hands and are place in a row above her head. Also above her head we see three rows and three columns with different images in them. Again, there's the stars and the moon. In the middle there is a skeleton. I mean all different images with different meanings. Can you break it down for us betye?

Betye: Well first of all I would like to say that you look absolutely fabulous in that baby blue suit and tie.

Michael: Thank you Betye. When I heard you were coming on the show I knew i had to look my best.

Betye: Well you look amazing!

Michael: Thank you

Betye: Anyway, when I created this piece in a reminisence of my experience. Growing up in the L.A. Watts projects, I have seen through my eyes the horrors of this world. My idea of this piece is to have my audience feel a way of traveling from one level of conciousness to another, like the physical looking into the spiritual. I once......

George: Well when I look at it all I see is an african-american girl looking out her window. No facial features or anything. How would you describe her emotion? Or does she not have any emotion? And just how does any of that stuff on top relate to her?

Betye: Well George if I could talk for more than two seconds I would explain it to you. I once read that "art is a window, a way of sharing." A window frames the passage of our vision, inward as well as outward. It is a perplexing concept of who is looking in and who is looking out? Her eyes looking outside of the window glitter with destiny. She wants out of this box and into the world.

George: If she wants into the world why doesn't she just open the window and climb out?

Betye: You know what George? Its not that simple. On the top of her are nine little boxes in rows of three marked by the crescent, the star and the sun. But look George, in the middle box where you see the skeleton. Death is in the center.Everything evolves around death. The girl knows this and is terrified of what the world will bring her. Love, your loved ones, the earth, etc all revolved around death. Everything and everyone will eventually die one day. Even your old self.

George: That's good Betye, but there is just to much for an audience to interpret in that. How will a viewer know unless they get your over-analyzed, profound speech about your childhood and your views on life?

Betye: That seems to be my point George. I want the audience to think for themselves. Maybe they can relate to this piece and find out that they are not the only ones in this world who have this feeling. I'm sorry people can at least be creative with their thoughts on my piece, unlike your boring three chair event.

Michael: Whoa! Whoa! Easy Betye. George can you talk about this piece for us please. Maybe without boring our other guest here.

George: Only three chairs were intended for my project. The three colors I chose, were the most dominant colors, in my opinion. With the proper placement of the chairs, I wanted my audience to feel welcome to the white chair, shy away from the black chair, and not even notice the yellow chair. Each chair was used in every show, but I would switch their spots after each showing. The only chair that seemed to be tampered with by the audience, was the chair sitting outside, the yellow chair. Most people seem to be intimidated by the chair in the spotlight. They would gaze at it like it was some type of throne. Not one chair was different, besides the color. They were all the same, and each chair that was in the spotlight was profoundly stared at. The audience seemed so timid to touch it, like it was too "holy" to touch. The other two chairs, however, were barely noticed. Each chair that was placed in the bathroom was not even glanced at.

Betye: Alright George, where is the logic in this event? That's the problem with you conceptuals. You are so boring and bland. You have no logic or purpose to you project. You just do the first thing that pops into your head.

George: That's the general idea Betye. My ideas are simple and lead to others. Philosophy and specifics are not always needed. Sure it might be boring but not everyone can be as interesting as you with your complex for and detailed plans in your work. I am more of a mystic person, not bound by logic and the shackles of the world. My thoughts actually build upon other thoughts and lead to new experience.

Michael: Ok. That about does it. We'll end early today before Betye ends up taking off one of those heals. George. Betye. Thank you so much for your time tonight. Catch my show next week when we have Shaq and Kobe trying to make up their differences with their thoughts. Maybe it will be as intense as today. Goodnight folks!