Free I Have the Right to Destroy Myself by Young-Ha Kim Page A

to be a wonderful exhibit, thanks to you."

    She only smiled a little. She asked, "What kind of work do you do?"
    He hesitated, unsure of what he should say, and the curator answered for him.
    "Oh, C? He studied Western art in college but now he does video and installation. Video art is really how he pays the bills." The curator looked at C as if for approval. C nodded imperceptibly.
    "What will you be showing in the exhibit?" she asked.
    He saw that her eyes, which had been languorous during the curator's monologue, were starting to sparkle.
    "Well, it's still in the planning stages, so I'm not exactly sure what it'll be."
    "Ah, I see," she said, assuming her original bored expression. She pursed her lips and sucked some kiwi juice she had ordered up through a straw. Closing his eyes, C imagined the green liquid going down her throat and spreading throughout her body. He could see her body turning green, the kiwi juice seeping into her capillaries. That image called to C's mind the seventeen-inch screen through which he watched the world. The screen in C's imagination fuzzily captured the image of Mimi drinking kiwi juice. The image of Mimi onscreen sharpened into focus and overlapped with the real Mimi. He opened his eyes. She was still sipping kiwi juice through a straw. He held his breath and suggested out of the blue, "Won't you work with me?"
    She didn't seem surprised, but she stiffened a little. She shifted in her seat, flipping her hair behind her shoulder. "Pardon? I'm not sure I understand."

    "I'd like to capture your performance onscreen. Like Nam June Paik's
TV Cello.
I would film you, edit and transform the work, and on opening night you could perform your piece, live. Behind you would be my work. A meeting of performance and video art. What do you think?"
    His palms started to sweat. He jabbered on, trying hard to convince her to agree, even though he didn't really have a clearly formulated idea. An unstoppable urge to capture her on film propelled him. He recognized that he was dangerously attracted to her, but he couldn't resist. She quietly looked into his eyes.
    "Know how to ride a bike?" she asked, breaking the long silence.
    "Of course," he answered, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation.
    "A lot of people said they'd teach me how to ride a bike. I don't know why they wanted to. I guess learning to ride a bike is hard to do on your own. They hold on to the bike from behind, but as soon as they let go, I wobble and fall over. Whenever someone offers to teach me how to ride a bike, I treat them skeptically."
    C couldn't figure out why she was talking about a bike, but didn't interrupt.
    "Just now, hearing you propose to film my performance, I thought of the people who wanted to teach me how to ride
a bike. I don't really know why, yet. I haven't ever filmed or photographed my performances. For some reason, I get the feeling that this would be more dangerous than learning to ride a bike, maybe because it's something new?"

    She paused, playing with her hair.
    "Give it a shot. C is very talented," the curator piped in.
    She smiled feebly. "It's a very strange day. One of those days where you can't refuse anything asked of you."
    She took out a piece of paper from her purse, scribbled her number on it, and handed it to C.
    "Call me. But I might change my mind." Leaving behind traces of her wispy silhouette, she exited the café.
    "Isn't she hot?" the curator said, grinning. "There are two types of beauty, seductive and self-protective."
    "Which do you think she is?" C asked.
    "I'm not sure. I guess the only way to know for sure is to get close to her. It's weird. She's famous for not letting herself be photographed or filmed. Did you know that?"
    "No." C shook his head.
    "She never allowed it. So you can only see her performance in person. People who've seen it say it's amazing. It's possible that it's made to be something greater than it really is because her reputation was built on word of mouth.