hair. cut/

this is the proposal i wrote up for a performance piece i was going to do.

hair. cut/

the Proposal.

hair. cut/ is an experiment. a test of conviction, of invisible barriers, humanity, and ultimately, freedom. physically and conceptually, it breaks the artist in two, subsequently proposing other divisions and cuts, until nothing is left.

for you: i am inviting you to cut my hair. you may know me as [blank], under [circumstances], or you may not know me at all. and when you look me in the eye, you see something not of your own. and when i hand you the pair of scissors, how do you feel? are you unsure? nervous? intrigued? ambivalent? bold? and the tension that brews and thickens, only released by a snip. how does this change you? how does this change me? how do you effect other participants? what is this sort of mute relationship we have created?

for me: i am inviting you to cut my hair. traditionally hair is a symbol of vanity and token of identity, and by putting myself in this position where you, someone that I know or a complete stranger, are to snip my hair off however they like, i am putting my own concept of self up for reconsideration. and in a broader sense, i am giving into vulnerability, discovering myself as ephemeral, changeable, my identit(ies) as momentary and passing. subjecting myself to outside effects, becoming something not independent of others, of wind, dirt, damage, change, rendering control as something of mysticism.

don’t get me wrong, i (the felicia) am scared. i, unsure. and fond of this long black hair that has become the symbol of recognition from my peers, something that i have carried for so long, something i (the felicia) am so, so attached to. but I (the other) also need this. because I want to be freed from i. i like touching it, the way it feels through my fingers as though it doesn’t end. i like the unrestrained wildness of it in the wind. after the shower, i like it wet against the total length of my back, like a cold sloppy spine.

it’s something of my own.

ladies and gentlemen: this is a test. of you, me. i can only wonder what will be created by the end.

i wasn't able to go through with it. it wasn't the fear, which was quite real. it was my mom, who didnt want me to have short hair (because of dubious reasons i suspect), who, as it turns out, holds the biggest pair of scissors over my head than anyone else, including myself.

and in a strange way, the piece was, not necessarily completed, but resolved by me not doing anything. aside from not having a final project in mind, i still wish i could've done it. i wanted to know what it would have felt like.

actually.. i think i needed to know what it would feel like.