She is short, thin, "sleep deprived."
It does not matter.
She is an artist. That does not matter.
What do you do, I ask.
"Social Sculpture."
What does that mean? What do you do?
"I look at a map of the city. I study the map.
I haul dirt from one end of the City to the other."
Is that so different? Different from every day.
Different from normal?
"I don't think about difference. I think about dirt.
His dirt,your dirt, their dirt. I haul it in the truck - exposed -
Street by street, corner to corner, one end to the other."
I don't understand. What else do you do?
"I stop people. I ask if I can touch them for exactly one minute
Right on their arm at a point between their wrist and their elbow."
What is the point of that? What is the point of being so exact?
"What is the point of anything? Dirt, touch, an exact minute:
It is as simple as that."
What is the crisis here?
"There is no crisis. It is what it is.
What is your crisis, Mister?"
You look so closely it creates a panic. I am beside myself.
I don't understand your practice. What is it?
"Examine everything, time, space, volume, unit:
Examine everything - dirt, touch - closely.
Can I also ask you to breathe?"
Why is that, or how can that be, "social sculpture"?
"Come on. Shut-up. Look. Listen. Be finished. That's it. No more.
I am done. Done with you. Sayonara. Over.
Completely. You got it. Yes, that's social. Entirely. Through the floor:
Empty, gone, done for sure, Social."
Stephen Vincent
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