Human Art
By Emily Lullo
I’ve always been considered kind of an artsy type person. I used to want to be an artist when I grew up. I was in art lessons. I do arts and crafts. I took art courses in college. I have countless art major friends. I’ve been in other people’s art projects and modeled for art. But one thing I have not done is actually be art.
Never one to turn down a possibly enlightening experience, I decided to do just that—become a piece of human art, put on display to the masses at Pensacola’s premiere art event Gallery Night. I wanted to be something simple, that would invite comment or interaction with passersby.
I decided to turn myself into a human statue, because who doesn’t love living statues? With an eye-catching color and a comfy wicker bench, I would send viewers a visual invite to have a seat, take a picture or just relax and drink in the intriguing and whimsical company of a monochromatic mute. In a spray painted country style dress and straw hat, I sought to juxtapose an image of rural peace against the backdrop of the bustling cityscape, because I’ve been told any good artistic concept must employ the word “juxtapose.”
For a few days prior to Gallery Night, I spread out the work of spray painting my bench, dress, shoes, hat, and a wine glass, red. I also picked up some red acrylic paint to cover my exposed skin (probably inadvisable when such things as actual body paint exist), and some red hued hairspray, all of which set me back less than $20, since I already owned the clothes and bench. On the big day, I unceremoniously smeared paint across my extremities, face and neck, put on my dress and hat, covered my hair in the foul-smelling hairspray. Then I headed Downtown.
I had gotten permission from the post office to set up in front of the fountain, a primo location facing Wine Fest, from which many paused in their tasting throughout the evening to lean over the barricade and snap photos of me on phones and cameras. Striking a complacent, lounging pose with my glass tipped toward my smiling mouth, I waited for the crowds to start taking over Palafox.
I decided my statue persona was slightly sentient—no talking, but subtle movements like tiny nods, cheeky grins and little shrugs were allowed. I became especially adept at winking at children, which had a mixed reception.
Responses varied, but almost all were delighted with this living art piece set amidst the buzz of Gallery Night. People strolled past, their eyes moving quickly over me, then stopping dead to do double takes. It requires little stillness to avoid detection in a flurry of activity—many seemed unaware of my presence until others stopped and pointed.
There were many recurring responses: “I wouldn’t have noticed she was real, but she smiled at me!” “Ha! I love it!” “Oh, so creative!” Sure, but have you ever been four hours west of here? Some offered advice: “Don’t blink!” One woman stopped for a few moments and stared, frowning. “I don’t get it,” she said to her companions before moving on. Another person commented on the state of my bathtub following this charade. Wouldn’t you like to know.
To my surprise, the hardest part of the whole thing was smiling continuously for two straight hours. Almost every person who passed had a grin spreading across their face and I could hardly help but return the joy. By 7, the corners of my mouth felt so sore I couldn’t tell if I was smiling or grimacing, teeth bared like a rabid animal, at happy Gallery Nighters.
Toward the end, people started forcing money upon me. With no tip hat in sight, they simply stuffed rolled dollars into my wine glass, soiling my invisible wine, which was probably cheap, anyhow. In the last ten minutes of the experiment I made $6. Nice.
Just after 7, I magically became a fully sentient and free moving statue, so I packed up my bench and enjoyed the remainder of Gallery Night. Many called out, “Hey, red lady!” Those who hadn’t seen me before just stared bemusedly. Hey, I’m not just some freak; I’m a work of art.