For a while now I’ve been having–every so often–dreams that feature Ann Liv Young. Well, three dreams, to be exact.
These started, as far as I can surmise, shortly after my first writing on Ms. Young’s work.
The central anxiety of these dreams–and they are always anxious dreams–balances precariously on a paradigmatic axis of whether or not Ann Liv Young likes me.
This state, I suppose, is a state of my reality. I do not know Ms. Young personally. While we may share mutual friends and acquaintances, we have never communicated directly. So I don’t know what Ms. Young feels toward me other than what I have experienced at her performances, which, unlike almost any other performance work today, make it a chief concern to deliver to the audience a packaged bundle of various fields of regard Ms. Young either does or does not have for them.
The only two pieces of information I have to evince what Ms. Young may or may not feel about me is miniscule, but perhaps telling.
First, silence.
After publishing that first article, I realized that I should probably have given Ms. Young a “heads up,” since the highly sensitive issue–that of a child’s welfare–and my calling into question the constitution of her work as “art” necessarily implicated Ms. Young as having performed a non-artistic act against a child that may be deemed by some as neglect. So I sent Ms. Young an email, using the address found on her website at the time, alerting her about the piece. I have never received a response from Ms. Young either to that email or to any of the pieces I have written about her work since.
Second, and possibly related, hearsay.
A friend of mine went to one of Ms. Young’s “Christmas” shows, which she held at her home last winter. I dared not go myself: 1. I was busy, 2. Because I don’t like to be terrorized during performances, and 3.) Because I really wasn’t sure how Ms. Young would respond to my presence, should she even know who I am.
Nevertheless, my friend went, and I asked him, afterward, what his experience had been like. After reporting some predictable activities (people getting naked, obnoxiously loud music), my friend said he had a brief conversation with Ms. Young, afterward, in which she mentioned to him, “Some people think I’m a bad mother.”
Hmm. Could I be “some people”? I cannot know, but I don’t think it would be a stretch assume.
At any rate, the first dream I had in which my subconscious mind conjured the figure of Ann Liv Young was brief, and I can barely remember it now. (I have a vague feeling that erotic activity may have figured in.) What I do remember, though, is that I was concerned, within the dream, about how Ms. Young felt about me personally: Did she like me?
The dream was probably inconclusive—as dreams may be—but the feeling of it, the ambiguity of where I stood within Ms. Young’s personal regard, was strong, and would remain the vital crux of the dreams that were to come.
The second dream, which occurred back in January, was much more elaborate than the first, and I am lucky enough to have briefly transcribed it within the thread of a G-chat I had with a friend. I will include the transcript below (protecting the anonymity of said friend). (The excerpt also includes an unrelated dream involving drag and Danny Devito. Just for fun.)
Transcript of G-Chat:
me: Did I tell you I had a Sudafed-induced dream that I was performing in an improv drag act w/ Danny Devito?
[redacted]: !
um, no
me: It was weird, and sexual, but I was going with hit.
I was the one in drag, in platform heels. He was the “straight” guy. Then there were all these curtains that kept getting in our way. Sounds sort of Fruedian, no?
Did I also forget to tell you about the latest Ann Liv Young dream I had?
[redacted]: lordy
tell me
me: Well, I was at her latest performance, which turned out to be really good! I was really happy with it. Then, to make it truly interactive, ALY had privately researched everyone in the audience, and had the mother of one of the attendees flown in to make a guest appearance in her piece. (How amazing is that?) Then, as I was leaving the performance, whicl it was still going on, I went to tell someone how great the piece was because it was free of all the low-brow shock tactics, when I looked back over my shoulder and saw the entire cast start vomiting onstage in synchronization.
[redacted]: hahahahhahaha
BRILLIANT
me: I know. It was so vivid.
It’s weird to have dreams about another artist.
[redacted]: i think you should go to one of the performances in her home
me: Scary…
:-o
Even in this dream, I felt a heightened anxiety about my presence at the performance. I vaguely recall exchanging an inchoate glance of recognition with Ms. Young, who was performing.
The anxiety is compounded by what seems both inventive and invasive, the choice of Ms. Young to conduct reconnaissance on each member of the audience. Could she have selected my mother to participate in the show? At least in the dream, she didn’t. But the gotcha moment of revelation touches on that cloud of vertigo into which one descends at, say, a surprise birthday party when one is the unknowing recipient of the surprise. The lay of the land shifts abruptly to create a void; a distrust of the real. That is where art happens. And in the dream, I enjoyed this as a powerful tactic suffused with meaning.
Interestingly enough, my enjoyment of the work and the ruse, in the dream, seemed to have allayed my own misgivings about Ms. Young as an artist and as a person. I felt a “relief.” I felt, perhaps, that this could put me on positive ground with the artist in terms of a personal connection. I was so uplifted by the scenario that I left the performance while it was still going on to share the news with someone.
But then, sure enough, as I make that irresistible, notorious glance back over the shoulder—following in the fated footsteps of Orfeo, of Lot’s wife, of anyone who dares to accompany insatiable human curiosity (rooted in erotic distrust?)—the illusion of the unsullied work is eviscerated by a revolting, collective chorus of regurgitation orchestrated by the artist.
I remember, now, my friend (who attended the Christmas show) telling me that he became anxious during the performance that Ms. Young had tailored her work’s content to the audience in attendance (I think she requested full names for RSVPS). His anxiety must have slipped into mine and tethered into the fabric of my dream.
What set off the most recent dream, I have no idea, but it occurred before I knew of Ms. Young’s upcoming “Yard Sale,” which is to take place at her home in Brooklyn, where “ins and outs plus some salvaged set pieces!” will be hocked by Sherry, one of Ms. Young’s more congenial personas.
In this dream, I was suddenly in Ms. Young’s home, which was set along the sea, perhaps within the shelter of a bay. It was twilight.
Ms. Young greeted me indirectly by my full name. To someone else, she said, “Oh! It’s Ryan Tracy.”
Relief again! I was finally in, I felt, as I grabbed a glass cup from a glass showcase.
There were children there. I think she had two young children now.
Ms. Young said to me that she was sorry I wasn’t at the performance the day before, because now I wouldn’t know the routine for the group dance.
Soon we were in front of the house. The garage door was open and there were people everywhere, both inside and sitting in crowds around the driveway.
The performance started, and soon there was the group dance. I watched.
Suddenly we were back inside the house and also in the back yard. Some kind of reception was going on. And for some reason I kept taking my shirt on and off.
Eventually, everyone kind of disappeared, and I wondered where they’d gone. Then I realized they had all gone back to the front of the house. I headed for the front door, pulling my shirt back over my head, and jostling the glasses I was wearing. It was difficult to see.
When I came around the front of the garage, I beheld a magnificent barbecue. A cucumber barbecue, to be perfectly–surreally–exact!
During the “reception,” Ms. Young’s boyfriend—in the dream, he was gay—had helped set up the cucumber barbeque as the final performance component of the evening. It was like a hanging garden, with cucumber shavings, bright and dark green, falling from lattices. Black smoke rose in the air over a large grill that was piled up with cucumbers. A few men were tending the grill as everyone socialized. I looked down at a nearby table that was crowded with all kinds of cooked cucumbers. In a square glass bowl, there were chunks of golden, deep fried cucumbers, charred on the edges.
As I picked up one of the pieces, stabbed by a toothpick, I felt a cool, juicy piece of raw cucumber already in my mouth.
The “Yard Sale” will take place Saturday, June 27, starting at 10am. Directions can be found at http://www.annlivyoung.com/directionstosherrys.html.
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