The studio is more than an impersonal space

Hundreds of rapturous devotees, including assorted celebrities, waited to worship at the altar of the artist. In her 2010 performance piece at MoMA, The artist is present, Marina Abramović sat in silence for almost three months, all day every day (except Sunday, her day of rest). The acolytes took turns to sit opposite the artist, to bask in the light of her beatific healing gaze, in the warmth of her unconditional love. Many of the 1500 sitters shed tears; one shed her tears and her clothes. As cultural critic Dubravka Ugresic commented, ‘Abramović turned MoMA into … Lourdes, herself into Our Lady, and thousands of visitors into believers and pilgrims.’¹ The artist is present was emblematic of our contemporary moment: the collapse of boundaries between the public and the private; the individual’s desire to inscribe himself on the public stage; the cult of personality; and the celebrity artist (usually dead men rather than living women) as site of secular pilgrimage.

Abramović is one of that rare breed: a living celebrity artist. Most artists receive little recognition in their lifetime, and only a few attain posthumous fame. It’s the same with writers. For every J.K. Rowling, there are a million scribblers penning their works in obscurity, penury and hopeless hope. Perhaps, like Our Lady, having completed the course of her earthly life, Abramović will gain perpetual glory. But the odds are against it; only a select few enter the pantheon of all-time greats.