It was like falling down an elevator shaft and landing in a pool full of mermaids.
Hunter S. Thompson
I don’t know what the fuck I expected. You show up at a museum, they hustle you into an elevator, and suddenly you’re trapped in a metal box with strangers while someone’s doing something that might be prayer, might be exorcism, might be both. The Workcenter doesn’t perform for you, they perform at you, through you, like you’re just meat standing between them and whatever they’re reaching for.
But catch ’em backstage, behind the scene, and suddenly they’re just a bunch of weirdos who happen to be really good at their jobs. Somebody’s cracking wise. Somebody’s leaning against the wall like they just ran a marathon. The whole mystical warrior thing is on break and what you’re left with is the raw fact that these are just PEOPLE who decided that going completely fucking insane in the name of art was a reasonable career path.
And that’s almost BETTER, you know? Because the work is the work, it’s supposed to blow your head off, it’s DESIGNED to, but seeing them crack a smile, seeing them just EXIST between the holy moments, that’s when you realize the whole thing isn’t some precious art/monk bullshit. They’re doing it because they HAVE to, sure, but they’re also doing it because it beats sitting in a cubicle, and maybe because sometimes in an elevator you can just be regular exhausted instead of cosmically exhausted.