Natura Morta #19

by Ian Hebeisen

Ernest clutched at the pamphlet in his hand. Before his wife Harriet passed away, the two of them came to the Metropolitan Museum of Art almost every other weekend. They would meander through the halls, marveling at the paintings and giggling at certain sculptures. They knew every corner and picture frame as well as their own home. But without Harriet by his side, Ernest shuffled through the hallways like a child searching for their mother in a slew of strangers.

Marble statues towered above him: soldiers and demigods from Greek Mythology, striking poses in their stone togas. They stood unblinking, their muscles poised at the ready. Ernest scooted past them apologetically. He kept looking over his shoulder, uncertain if the statues were following him out of the gallery with their stony staring.

Burying his nose in his pamphlet, Ernest wandered into the neighboring gallery. The room, despite its lofty ceiling and wide dimensions, felt claustrophobic due to the gathered crowd. Ernest struggled to maneuver through the sea of patrons, mumbling apologies as he passed.

Soon, he reached the center of the room and paused. In a large roped off circle sat a peculiar exhibit. On one side was a dingy tent made of grey canvas. Across from the tent, a large cement block the size of a suitcase sat in the middle of a red “X” painted on the floor. A ring protruded from the block, with a rope connecting the ring to a pulley system. A motorized winch system rested at the end of the rope, with a remote and an alarm clock side by side next to the winch.

Ernest examined the strange art installation with curiosity. Perhaps it served as a commentary on urbanization? The clash between human inhabitants and mechanization? He scanned the room for any information on the artist or the piece. Locating a plaque near the velvet ropes, Ernest inched his way past the whispering bystanders to get a closer look. The plaque provided a brief biography and synopsis:

Natura Morta #19

NADIA TRENTINI (1972-Present)

Cement, rope, canvas, steel, winch, alarm clock, live performer

The final installment in Trentini’s Natura Morta series, #19

combines still life with performance art. This piece relies on 

the viewer’s anticipation, forcing the audience to exist in the 

space between performances.

Scratching his balding head, Ernest looked at the installation, then back at the plaque. He read the description again. He found himself asking more questions, and pondered whether that was the artist’s intended effect.

The alarm clock went off. The room went silent, except for the abrasive tinkling of the tiny hammer against brass bells.

Movement within the tent captured everyone’s attention. All eyes gazed into the dark space behind the canvas flaps. The entrance fluttered, and a man crawled out. A few members of the audience gasped, Ernest included. The man appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s, and wore nothing but a tarnished pair of white underwear. His legs and forearms jutted out at awkward, twisted angles. Each appendage looked swollen with watercolor bruises consisting of midnight purples and wine-dark reds. Deep circles under the man’s eyes punctuated his sunken face.

Pulling himself along the floor with his fractured arms, the man crawled towards the alarm clock. With each movement of his arms, the man drew a sharp breath. Through gritted teeth, he groaned and threw out an arm, smacking the alarm clock. The ringing stopped, replaced with the man’s pained shouts.

Ernest felt his heart rise in his chest. He scanned the crowd, taking in a collage of faces with different expressions. Some wore looks of shock, others seemed pensive and intrigued, and a few appeared amused. Ernest swallowed the lump in his throat. Certainly, the man’s screams were for show? He was a performer; any pain was a fabrication — an orchestrated choral aspect of the art experience.

The screams subsided, and the man regained an inkling of composure. He fixed his bloodshot eyes onto the remote lying next to the winch. Grimacing all the while, the man slid his mangled hand over to the remote and slammed a finger down on a button.

Humming to life, the winch’s motor began winding up the rope. The woven cords tightened and gradually lifted the cement block into the air, moving an inch at a time.

The man propped himself on his elbows and began to waddle like a seal, dragging his useless legs behind him. Sweat seeped from his brow and down the side of his face. As the block continued ascending towards the ceiling, the man lurched towards the red “X.”

At one point, his elbow slipped, and the man slammed his face against the floor with a sickening crack. He let out a moan, then turned his head and spat blood. Something tinkled out of his mouth and skittered across the floor, landing about a yard away from Ernest’s feet. It was an incisor, the root still attached and coated with a little blood. Ernest felt his pastrami on rye revolt in his stomach.

By the time the man reached the “X,” the cement block was at the audience’s heads. Peeking at the base of the block, Ernest could see brown splatter marks staining the cement. The man flipped onto his back, shifting his shoulders to position his head in the center of the “X.” He stared up at the block as it moved away from him, ever cranking upwards.

After what felt like weeks, the block reached the ceiling and stopped. The spectators looked back and forth between the performer and the block. The man simply laid on his back, staring up. He looked as calm as if he were in a meadow, watching the stars.

Ernest found himself holding his breath. He wanted to jump over the velvet ropes and pull the man away from the “X,” but his legs refused to move. He wanted to scream at the very least, either in fear or anguish, but not even his voice would cooperate. Unsure of whether minutes, hours, or days passed, Ernest debated a quick glimpse at his watch.

The winch released the cement block. The man on the “X” exhaled and closed his eyes. The block plummeted back to earth, smashing the young man’s skull with a definitive “thud.” Flecks of wet brain matter spurted across the floor in a crimson arch.

A couple people in the crowd vomited. Disbelief bubbled inside Ernest’s chest. He scanned the room for a medic or security, but nobody rushed in. There was only the crowd and the man’s corpse.

“Stunning,” said a woman next to him. She turned to the man linking arms with her. “Such a dynamic expression of human futility, and dare I say, a commentary on corporate America?”

“Hmph. Pompous dreck, nothing more,” said the man. “Shall we?”

Slowly, the crowd dispersed throughout the museum. After a while, Ernest remained the only member of the original crowd in the room. He stood, clenching his fist around his pamphlet and staring at the lone tooth on the floor.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and he jumped. Ernest turned, coming face to face with a security guard.

“Museum’s closing, buddy. You need to move along,” said the guard.

Ernest checked his watch. He had stood there for hours after the performance, oblivious to the time. Turning to the guard, Ernest cleared his throat.

“There’s going to be another performance, right?”

The guard shook his head. “Today was the exhibit’s last day.”

Ernest nodded, then shuffled out of the exhibition hall. The trip out of the museum and back to his house in Brooklyn felt like a dream. Upon returning home, he put on his slippers, sat in his armchair, and turned on the TV. He stared at the empty chair next to his, with impressions worn into the placid beige fabric.