FAQ: What does Artisfear mean?


artisfear:

Six years ago, Arlington Cultural Affairs held a contest to
name an arts institution they planned to open in the former Newseum space in
Rosslyn. They offered three options on which the public could vote. I helped
promote the contest by posting it on social media. I recall many smarty-pants
friends making disparagingly clever comments about the proposed choices. My
favorite comment was written by my good friend Gareth, who suggested we call
the space Art Is Fear, wordplay on the winning moniker, Artisphere. Genius! I
immediately purchased the URL.

Two years later, an artist named Agnes Bolt proposed a
performance art installation that entailed her living inside a small enclosure
inside my apartment for one week. She explained that she would observe my
behavior as an art collector, gathering data for a public gallery exhibition
later that year. I agreed to participate in what seemed like a peaceful
co-existence that would not interfere much with my routine.

On the appointed move-in day, Agnes arrived in a moving truck that contained large sheets of clear hard plastic that she assembled into a bubble structure that filled up
my entire apartment. She attached 15’ expandable dog tunnels to either end of
the bubble. She crawled through a tunnel from one end to the bathroom when she needed to
relieve herself. She creeped through a tunnel attached to the other send in the middle of the night to observe me
in my sleep.

On the first day, she presented me with a contract that required greeting her each morning with
a kiss, communicating with her only via a tiny tube through which I would
deposit handwritten messages on tiny pieces of paper, and performing various
tasks at her discretion. A continuously running video camera captured every
moment. Her photographer documented the experience with still images and slept on the couch.

Other than to shower in my bathroom whenever I was away from
the apartment, I never saw her leave the bubble until Day 4 when we clashed
over a revenge prank that went too far. Emotionally exhausted from the
experiment, I slammed my bedroom door and ignored her text message apologies. She and
her photographer friend left my house and roamed the streets for an hour
before I’d calmed down enough to invite them back. We settled on an uneasy
truce. When she moved out at the end of the week, we both cried with relief and
sadness over our failure.

Before Agnes moved in, I hadn’t planned on blogging about
the experience. Once I fully comprehended how far she had expanded the scope of
my original expectation, I had a hunch things would get weird. I knew I would
need a way to deal with the discomfort and distress her performance would cause.
Calling that blog Artisfear seemed obvious.