Presence (artwork) / Liz Lewis

Presence After “Presence” Liz Lewis

if it smacked him in the face. Pierre chuckles thinking about smacking him in the face, but he won’t have to stoop that low; he’s too busy stooping to see what could be hiding under this curtain! But this kid. He’s part of a bigger problem. No one appreciates real art, live performance, the kind of art that makes you think. No one’s really alive. They don’t stop to listen; they can’t shut up. No one really knows how to be truly creative; they’re too busy being distracted. If it doesn’t scream at you with bells and whistles it doesn’t get the time of day, except to be the butt of some stupid prick’s joke. He sees it at the bank too. Peter stands there nine-to-five, five days a week, waiting, waiting on other people in his three-piece suit. They’re all too checked out to check the right boxes on their forms. Too plugged in to their YouTubes and Twitters and Facebooks. Peter made a Facebook back in 2010. It was the thing to do. But as old high school classmates and even bullies began “friending” him, he quickly became uncomfortable. Who are these people? It’s a privilege to know him. He’s a goddamn delight. Why should these random people know his marital status (single) and age (56) and likes (Downton Abbey) and dislikes (de Blasio)? That’s not just something you go telling people. He didn’t like how everyone’s face looked in those little squares, least of all his own. Pierre picks up a bag and struggles under its weight. He begins unloading its contents and tossing them up in the air. His eyes follow the arch of their ascent and descent and occasionally, when an object gets too close, he crosses his eyes and reels from the impact. A flock of pigeons begins to swarm near the fountain. Some schmuck has decided to share his bread. Don’t they know that pigeons have plenty of garbage to eat as it is? The number of pigeons grow and grow, and the flapping of their gray and

purple and white and iridescent wings becomes more menacing. It’s a bloodbath. They cock their heads back and forth and one points its piercing orange eyes at Pierre who is now dangerously close to a thrown bread crumb. “We’re the same. You and I,” coos the pigeon. “We’re both out in the cold doing a little dance for crumbs.” They are not the same. Pierre doesn’t “dance” and he doesn’t do it for money, for crumbs. This is passion, dedication, art.

“Art? Is that what you’re trying to prove? Is this because the improv kids bullied you? I mean that’s a pretty low blow. They’re improv kids.” They didn’t bully him. Did they? Did they tell the pigeon about him? Are they still talking about him? On the Facebook? “No. No. You’re right. We’re not the same. You eat your crumbs alone.” “Shut up!” yells Pierre and then he quickly covers his mouth in such an exaggerated manner it could have been part of his routine. Did anyone see that? No, it’s a public park in Brooklyn. No one cares. Unnerved, Pierre goes to sit on a box he forgets is not real. He sits on the cold pavement instead and leans his head back on the edge of the fountain. He closes his eyes, cocks his head from side to side, rolls his shoulders, and breathes deeply. Today is Saturday. Today it does not matter. Right T’ai chi man? You know how to be present. Look, another present! What could be inside the box? Who could be inside the box?