Rhythm 0, Marina Abramovich, 1974

Philip Zimbardo, professor of psychology at Stanford University and conductor of the infamous Stanford Prison Experiment, stated in his book The Lucifer Effect: Understanding How Good People Turn Evil that most everyone in their day-to-day lives is one step short of becoming an instrument of evil. Most of us perceive evil as an entity, as something intrinsically tied to fate, yet this is such a fatal misstep in understanding how nearly everything that shapes our identity is a gradual occurrence. In the case of the Stanford Prison Experiment, it only took six days for Zimbardo to terminate the study out of concern for the mental and physical well-being of the "mock prisoners," who in the span of those six days were taunted, beaten, stripped naked, and deprived of sleep, among other things. None of those involved, either Zimbardo or the participants in the experiment, faced any consequences in the aftermath. In looking back at the experiment, Zimbardo states, "Our sense of identity is in large measure conferred on us by others in the ways they treat or mistreat us, recognize or ignore us, praise us or punish us. Some people make us timid and shy; others elicit our sex appeal and dominance.Those subjective beliefs create new realities for us. We often become who other people think we are, in their eyes and in our behavior.” In Zimbardo's eyes, our self-proclaimed morals are seemingly directly related to our immediate environment, defying this longstanding belief that one's kindness or cruelty is set in stone. People derive their sense of identity from group consciousness rather than from within themselves. It's unsettling to think if anyone's ever had an organic reaction to stimulation that wasn't at least in part influenced by their peers or authority figures. Marina Abramovich, a Serbian performance artist, has translated this theory directly into her body of work spanning over four decades. More specifically, her Rhythm series, spanning from 1973 to 1974, dealt directly with challenging her audience's morality through repeated exercises of physical and mental endurance to attain "physical and mental purification." The audience almost always played a role in aiding or inflicting abuse on Abramovich throughout her performances. Take her Rhythm Five and Rhythm Four series, for example. With the former, she lit a large, five-pointed star aflame before leaping across the flame and lying in the middle of the pentagram as crowds gathered. The latter performed at the Galleria Diagramma in Milan, in which she kneeled before an industrial fan slowly crawled closer, attempting to stretch her lung's capacity to its utmost limits. In both cases, Abramovich was rendered unconscious, leading spectators to interfere to the dismay of her interest in "conquering her body's physical limitations." Critics have referred to her work as blurring the lines between what would be considered art and vulgar displays of masochism. Though masochism can best be defined as obtaining sexual or other gratification from what's considered painful or tiresome, I think it's a misunderstanding to assume Abramovich necessarily "enjoys" her creative process. I think of it much more as a necessity. One might engage in a hunger strike not out of enjoyment or attention but out of protest. The most violent, non-violent act of protest one can initiate is that of harming yourself as a public statement. The months that Abramovich spent developing her performances speak more to a creative ambition than a masochistic drive. Abramovich's Rhythm 0 series is among her most infamous projects in the span of the Rhythm series. Testing the limits of the relationship between performer and audience, positioning herself as the canvas. Over the course of six hours, Abramovich stood motionless on a pedestal in an empty gallery space, aside from 72 objects laid out on a table ranging from harmless objects to increasingly dangerous ones. Items included grapes, nails, honey, scissors, a scalpel, a gun, and a singular bullet. The gulf between such objects being that the audience could either harm or help her. The instructions of the performance were that in the span of six hours, the audience could act out any and all desires upon her without bearing any responsibility. Naturally, the spectators were tame as the first few hours went by, seemingly waiting for someone else to take the initiative in pushing the boundaries. It's a lot easier to justify atrocities to yourself under the guise of simply following orders. Rhythm 0 is a perfect demonstration of deindividualization in practice. The leap from mundane acts was gradual, yet by the three-hour mark, the audience had grown emboldened as the rules, or lack thereof, were established. Seemingly testing Abramovich's commitment to the act, she was stripped of her clothes at knifepoint as various minor sexual assaults were performed. By orchestrating this environment of discomfort amongst onlookers, it reinforced the idea that inaction was just as detrimental to Abramovich as participating; by not engaging, the audience was denying their privilege in the moment as well as denying Abramovich's identity as an artist. We often look back on instances such as the rise of Nazi Germany or the War on Terror and wonder how ordinary people were so easily seduced to commit atrocities during these periods. Morality, whether we wish to accept it or not, often revolves around whatever seems most convenient concerning our sociopolitical ideals. While the nature of Rhythm 0 was Abramovich resigning authority to the spectator, it was still necessary for her to hold a level of control over those who participated. She perpetrated a fear that if you were to be present in this space, you had to act out; it was like a contract. Her pain was created and directed by her. Many unthinkable actions are often brought about by the presence of systematic superiors. The subordinate feels compelled to do as they're ordered and is reassured that their actions are convincingly endorsed. Another situational force, dehumanization, serves to amplify the obedience of the subordinate. Abramovich was not seen as a person in the span of those six hours; she became an object, something to be taken apart and put back together. The climax of the performance came as a gun was loaded and placed at Abramovich's temple, her thumb directed towards the trigger. A faction of good samaritans soon emerged, revealing it wasn't just her against the audience, but the audience pitted against each other. Her transition from artist to person at the end of the performance incited a transition in the audience as well. Descending from her pedestal, bruised and naked, the spectators fled in mass, ashamed of their complicity.