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.

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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."

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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.