'13 Falls,' 13 works of art, 13 journals

M.A. Taft-McPhee, BK '03, conducted an ongoing sculpture project, entitled 13 Falls all this week. The project ended Thurs., Mar. 1, as Taft-McPhee "fell into bed."

KATIE ALDRICH/YH

Into place: 13 Falls was a sculpture project incorporating performance, documentation, and audience interaction, with 13 events taking place over the past week. It explored a range of issues. My high school English teacher told me once that some important people had done a study and discovered that we are only born with two natural human instincts: the urge to suckle and the fear of falling. This has always seemed strange to me. (I mean, what about sex?)

Out of line: But it also seems like it could be true—since it's not very easy to convince yourself to fall over. It's also kind of a private occurrence—I never know whether or not to help people who have fallen or just let them try and salvage their dignity by themselves. I've learned that this isn't necessarily how everyone feels, though. My friend Rachel once tripped and dumped a whole bucket of yellow paint all over herself and onto my feet, and all I could do was stand there while she yelled at me to do something. My shoes are still yellow, and she still thinks I'm useless sometimes.

ELIZABETH ARCHIBALD/YH

Wish list: A sexier, more tear-resistant jumpsuit; a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts; Andy Warhol hair; a tenured position as Chair of Falling; the ability to say "no"; a big ass stamp with a 13 on it; a pony (to fall off of).

For it: I still can't believe how much people care about Fall No. 6: "private, by invitation only." It seems to be the same dynamic in operation with secret societies: establish something vague, make it exclusive, and hint broadly at something illicit or sexual—and suddenly everybody is climbing all over each other in an effort to be part of the party. I felt pressured to live up to their expectations, though they'll never know whether or not I did. It's frustrating that one of the most resonant pieces of this work was the one I had the least control over.

Into each other: I know, having done it, what kind of person would come up with this kind of art. The performance touches lovingly on some of the various ways in which my life could turn to shit in the course of any given day. These are the falls I am always just moments away from having anyway. I'm more curious about the kind of people who would find it interesting. (And, for that matter, the kind of people who would give me printed space in which to talk about it.)

KATIE ALDRICH/YH

In love: There is apparently something that resonates—maybe the acting out of a common instinctual fear—but I worry that this is part of a greater trend. "Loud" art, crude, pointed art in sound bites, gets more attention than things that are subtle, complex, or requiring more than 10 seconds to understand. Witness the success of the Sensation show at the Brooklyn Museum. I consider myself a fairly private person. I would like to think that I am not going to have to fall down for the rest of my life to get attention.

To pieces: People ask what the whole thing is supposed to mean. It's like that time when my controlling grandmother organized us all to take a field trip to my Aunt Chris's studio. After we had all tramped in and pawed through the various materials, drawers, and works-in-progress, Chris pulled out some finished pieces to show us. My grandmother looked at her, looked at the painting, and said, "Well, Christina, tell us what it means." As if she would have gone and painted the thing in the first place if she could just go around saying what she meant instead.

ELIZABETH ARCHIBALD/YH

Ashes, ashes: There's a neon piece by Bruce Nauman that reads, "The true artist helps the world by revealing mystic truths." This is obviously a joke. Thinking that, just because I happen to fall over while wearing a stupid white jumpsuit, I'm making a statement is pretty ridiculous, too. But Nauman started from the premise that whatever he did in his studio had to be art. Now pictures of him pretending to levitate are selling for big money.

Apart: At least other people have the good sense not to wear white Tyvek jumpsuits and not to trip themselves on purpose. On the other hand, they aren't usually careful enough to pad their fragile bodies before going out into the world. And they end up getting hurt.

And I can't get up: At least there is some compensation for all this. Art grants a certain license to arrogance in exchange for putting myself on the line. I feel that if I'm going to go to the trouble of falling over 13 times I can damn well do it when and where I please. And when I'm lying there on the ground "they" can either help me up or step over me, but I'll stay there as long as I like. Aside from some potential physical problems due to inadequate planning/padding, there's a lot of consequences I can escape by labeling my actions as "art."

From grace: In order for this project to work I had to lie occasionally about how I was feeling or what I was doing. I had to play off the sympathies of strangers under false pretenses. Sometimes the difference between the performance and an actual fall got confusing. It was at times unclear even to informed spectators whether a fall had been "successful" or whether something had gone horribly wrong. It was at times unclear to myself.

Into a rut: Fall no. 2 was off my bike.  I got so scared that I sweated through my shirt and slowed to a crawl before toppling awkwardly over. Having my head in the gutter and my bike on top of my leg wasn't a particularly transcendent experience. And judging from the guy waiting on the corner sitting on a bike, who looked supremely nonplussed by my anxiety-inducing little spill, no one else really cared either—except for my strange cheering section poised across the street, who screamed a little despite the fact that it was wimpy. It wasn't like I had another chance (or wanted one), so I promised myself I'd go all out for the next one and finished up the next day with a big bruise on my ass.

Over: These falls, like most art (good or bad, but especially bad) take place on the periphery of other people's lives. And on mine, too. I wake up, shower, fall over, go to class, eat lunch, fall over, take a nap. At night I call my mother and she tells me that Aunt Chris is divorcing my uncle to go live in California and I say the falls are going well, could she please maybe send me a helmet? A lot gets lost in the translation. It's probably better for all of us to never really know the whole story.

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