"They told me, 'We don't do that here,'" curator, performance artist and "Human Jukebox" star Joseph Keckler informed me when I asked why the artwork at Disappearing Acts at the Envoy Gallery this past Tuesday was unlabeled.
Keckler appeared adorably nervous, quietly pointing out artists and their works: New Yorkers such as Little Annie Anxiety (known also as Annie Bandez, among many other permutations), and Justin Bond, both of whom are part of the performance art scene along with Keckler. Numerous underground faces abounded that evening as well, including Earl Dax and Rumi Missabu of the Cockettes.
Keckler also introduced me to Andy Toad, whose artwork was a series photographs of himself wearing a vaguely steampunk sculpture over his face.
"It's meant to look like a luna moth with a proboscis," said Toad, wearing a skunk costume and flanked by designer Kristin Costa. He seemed really cute behind the mask (I've still never seen his face), and took the excuse to stare into his eyes as Costa voiced her obsession with Little Red Riding hood from somewhere inside her canvas ballgown, which sported both a hood and corset ("We're supposed to be 'disappearing acts'; my body is hidden and Andy is a spy-skunk," she explained ). While I freaked out over the faceless, red-hooded figures that flanked her pelvis, Andy explained through his mask that his missing tail was "a harness that I had to use for another piece."
After perusing pieces like Zhenesse's vials of human skin and fingernails over a mirror (blech!) or "digital accident" party shots by NY Press' own Gerry Visco, everyone settled down for performance art. Everyone except Visco, who encouraged people to undress all evening so she could iron their clothes.
Speaking of nudity, Erin Markey got her kit off and, after tugging a red tassle, gingerly removed a large scroll from her vagina. After unfurling it with gusto, she gave the "Mayor of Munchkinland" speech with perfect inflection. Other flawless inflections came from Keckler, whose nervousness dissolved into a captivating and perfectly executed monologue (including his lovely singing and piano styles). Also inflecting well was poet Edgar Oliver, a Georgia native with a perfect English accent, and South African performer Thain Torres, who was also nude-ish but complained that Visco's ironing work was flawed, due to liquor.
Artist Carol Lipnik finished off the evening with a meloncholy "Ne Me Quitte Pas," and I was sorry I had to leave, after a night of wonderfully, unpretentious performance art (and $3 well drinks, courtesy of next-door bar Home Sweet Home).
Keckler appeared adorably nervous, quietly pointing out artists and their works: New Yorkers such as Little Annie Anxiety (known also as Annie Bandez, among many other permutations), and Justin Bond, both of whom are part of the performance art scene along with Keckler. Numerous underground faces abounded that evening as well, including Earl Dax and Rumi Missabu of the Cockettes.
Keckler also introduced me to Andy Toad, whose artwork was a series photographs of himself wearing a vaguely steampunk sculpture over his face.
"It's meant to look like a luna moth with a proboscis," said Toad, wearing a skunk costume and flanked by designer Kristin Costa. He seemed really cute behind the mask (I've still never seen his face), and took the excuse to stare into his eyes as Costa voiced her obsession with Little Red Riding hood from somewhere inside her canvas ballgown, which sported both a hood and corset ("We're supposed to be 'disappearing acts'; my body is hidden and Andy is a spy-skunk," she explained ). While I freaked out over the faceless, red-hooded figures that flanked her pelvis, Andy explained through his mask that his missing tail was "a harness that I had to use for another piece."
After perusing pieces like Zhenesse's vials of human skin and fingernails over a mirror (blech!) or "digital accident" party shots by NY Press' own Gerry Visco, everyone settled down for performance art. Everyone except Visco, who encouraged people to undress all evening so she could iron their clothes.
Speaking of nudity, Erin Markey got her kit off and, after tugging a red tassle, gingerly removed a large scroll from her vagina. After unfurling it with gusto, she gave the "Mayor of Munchkinland" speech with perfect inflection. Other flawless inflections came from Keckler, whose nervousness dissolved into a captivating and perfectly executed monologue (including his lovely singing and piano styles). Also inflecting well was poet Edgar Oliver, a Georgia native with a perfect English accent, and South African performer Thain Torres, who was also nude-ish but complained that Visco's ironing work was flawed, due to liquor.
Artist Carol Lipnik finished off the evening with a meloncholy "Ne Me Quitte Pas," and I was sorry I had to leave, after a night of wonderfully, unpretentious performance art (and $3 well drinks, courtesy of next-door bar Home Sweet Home).
