Unspoken Stories

I don't know who it was who pointed out Marina Abramovic's performance piece at the Museum of Modern Art, but I certainly have to thank them for the link. I keep revisiting the website and see something different each time. Abramovic invited people to come and sit with her, one-on-one, for as long as they chose to stay. And people took her up on it, lots of people. Some stayed a few seconds, some stayed for hours, but all were recorded in a moment of sharing with the artist. And all without saying a word.

Each person had a story, each had a life that they brought to the (nonexistent in this installation) table. Each face was captured and it is left to us to read the stories that are being shared. Some had tears, some smiles, one or two almost laughing, some with what looked like agony in their eyes. Some came back several times while most were just there the one time. At least one woman brought her baby cuddled against her chest but almost all were there alone and vulnerable. All sorts and conditions of people: old, young, sophisticate, punk, from myriad races, probably myriad religious faiths (and no faith), serene, agonized, joy-filled to the point of brimming over, tearful past the point of brimming over. I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the faces, the eyes, the stories written there drawing me in and inviting me to be virtually present to them, their tales, their needs, their sharings.

I'd like to have had the opportunity to experience this installation in the real world. I wonder -- could I have borne to spend more than a  few seconds looking into the face of someone who wasn't judging me but rather offering a moment -- or an hour-- of silent conversation, quiet acceptance and patient listening?  It is so hard for me to meet someone else's eyes; it feels like I am invading their space, however briefly, and, worse yet, they are invading mine. I force myself to do it from time to time, but it's a rare thing for me. 

I am fascinated by those who can look into the face and eyes of another with such candor - and even sometimes with such apparent fear. I wonder, of those who asked Jesus for help, how many of them were afraid to meet him eye-to-eye, fearing judgment in those eyes and possibly rejection of them not just as petitioners but as people because of who or what they are or had been. I wonder if Jesus met the eyes of God as he raised his eyes to heaven and prayed. Surely he didn't fear rejection but perhaps asking something that God couldn't or wouldn't do for him, much as the woman with the hemorrhage, Jarius, the man who was lowered through the roof by his friends and countless others must have felt they were risking. It's all about risk, taking a chance, gambling that what we ask for will be received, weighed and then given.