Word about the next Virgin Sacrifice taping came directly from Paul, when we ran into each other at Bob Flanagan’s birthday performance at the New Museum.
For several weeks the California artist, who suffered from cystic fibrosis, had been ensconced in a hospital bed in the main gallery. Covers drawn to his chest, he greeted visitors and chatted quietly until the time came to stand up and strip himself naked. Every few hours, completely exposed, he would wrap a rope around his ankles and be winched upside down toward the ceiling. There he hung with arms outstretched in an inverted crucifix position meant to incarnate his art and help clear his lungs of accumulated mucus. But for tonight’s landmark occasion—he had attained the odds-defying age of 42—Flanagan promised something unprecedented.
A large crowd was on hand, milling about among the displays that accompanied the artist’s live-in project. Near the front was an installation duplicating the look of a pediatrician’s waiting room: low tables and chairs, children’s magazines and books, a few toys, a low wall of building blocks. Only on second look did one notice that the toy box was salted with rough-sex implements and the blocks were arranged to obsessively repeat the letters “S” and “M.” Nearby was a black stool crowned with a tapering butt plug. A long text, Flanagan’s memoir and credo, filled one wall, culminating in a catchphrase that, reiterated, encircled the entire exhibition space: “Fight sickness with sickness.”
In the rear gallery stood a scaffold holding half a dozen video monitors suspended in the form of a cross. One showed Bob’s head, others his hands, his feet, and his crotch. The last featured scenes of self-mortification—his penis being bound tightly with black leather thongs, his foreskin probed with needles, a nail driven through his scrotum and into a board. To one side of the scaffold lay an open, flower-bedecked casket with a video clip of the artist’s living face displayed on a monitor propped against a white satin pillow.
Bob himself, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans with a slim oxygen tank strapped to his hip, circulated among the guests. Joking and gesticulating, he breathed with the aid of a clear plastic tube taped just under his nose. He was an excellent host, doing his best to make everyone feel comfortable and entertained.
Behind him, moving when he moved, was Paul Morse. The familiar shoulder-held camera covered the younger man’s pretty face as he shadowed Flanagan. The event was being recorded, in a glare of artificial light, for PM Videos.
Once the crowd had filled the room, Bob disappeared behind a curtain. Soon a huge cake in the shape of male genitalia was wheeled out by assistants. Pieces were cut and distributed along with plastic glasses of wine. Finally, Bob reappeared—lying nude on a bed of nails atop a hospital gurney. The overhead track lights revealed a small bead of perspiration on his upper lip, his only sign of discomfort. After a few minutes, he sat up and spoke into a handheld mike, thanking us all for making this birthday such a memorable treat.
An artist I knew vaguely—one of the youth set, with shaved head and Dr. Martens boots—caught my eye and edged closer. He seemed to be screwing up his courage to speak to me, and I hoped it wouldn’t be a come-see-my-work pitch.
“How have you been, sir?” the young man asked.
“Fine. Just back from the Hamptons. It was all very chic. Guests arriving by helicopter on the front lawn—that sort of thing.”
I enjoyed the little white lie. Bohemian types always assume that SoHo dealers lead gilded lives, and the illusion is good for my brand.
“So,” he said wearily, “are you going anywhere interesting after the show?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m tired of interesting places, aren’t you?”
“Oh, for sure.” His eyes brightened. “Dull stuff is actually much more refined. Like, you know, this new French theorist says that blandness is the essence of Chinese culture.”
“Does he?” I finished my wine. “I wonder if he’s ever had a meal in Sichuan. Or a girlfriend in Shanghai.”
Just then Paul—heaven sent at that moment—eased between us, moving in for a final shot over my shoulder.
“Perfect,” he said as he switched off the camera and lights. “I never get tired of watching Bob.”
Suddenly, with the intense lamps extinguished, everything seemed less important. Paul spoke to me quietly, under the general murmur of resumed chatter.
“We’re taping a new Sacrifice in a few days. Are you game?”
“Sure, as long as Sammy makes it worth my while.”
“He will. Is Melissa ready? Does she trust you?”
“Better than that. She’s sweet on me.”
“Righteous, man.” Paul said it firmly, though he looked a bit hurt. “And her mother?”
“Not a clue.”
“They can be real hellcats, you know. Some moms.”
“Angela is busy playing Florence Nightingale to her ex-husband, who’s marooned in Sloan-Kettering.”
“That should keep her distracted.” Paul told me to expect a small group at the Crosby Street building. “What are you going to tell Missy?”
“That we’re off to a fun dance party with Uncle Paul and his friends.”
“Good, I like the way it sets her up.”
“I thought you might.”