OPPOSITION + EQUIVOCATION:
K8 HARDY IN CONVERSATION
WITH MICHELLE WHITE

K8 Hardy is a Brooklyn-based performance artist and one of the founding members of LTTR, a collective that publishes the identically titled journal. The shifting acronym has stood for "Lesbians To The Rescue," "Listen Translate Translate Record," and "Lacan tends to Repeat," alternately embodying the urgency of the group's politic or reflecting their practice's witty semantic maneuvers. Hardy's first name is also an acronym of sorts. She devised it as a teenager—a cue from the street language of skate boarding culture and self-published zines, a cool shorthand scrawl to replace "Kate"—and the name, she says, just stuck. But it also speaks to the nature of her practice, a playful, skillful skirting of structures, like language. It entrenches the irreverent and handwritten evasiveness of alt-subculture in academic discourse, combining the artist's critical education in queer and gender theory with a political agenda that she describes as "anti-oppositional." The result is a deliberately amateurish aesthetic of cultivated yet genuine improvisational gestures that provokes, and asks questions about the meaning of a feminist agenda.

Michelle White: Our conversation started at a symposium in Dallas. There was this great moment when, as we were both sitting next to him, W.J.T. Mitchell proclaimed, "feminism is a fossil." This statement was meant to frame the possibility of going back to the archive of activist histories. For me, one of the most exciting things about your work is the sincerity with which you dust off the relics of the women's art movement, and reference the import of gender theory in the visual arts. Why are you interested in going back to such a specific moment in activist history now?

K8 Hardy + Wynne Greenwood, New Report Power Station, 2007, performance documentation at Tate Modern (courtesy of Tate Modern, London; photo: Jet)

K8 Hardy: I don't consider it going back. It's where I am coming from. It's the work that has inspired me and that has been a great motivation. Second-wave feminist artists have really influenced me.

MW: What sort of texts or images have been important sources of material for you?

KH: I like reading theory and philosophy. I don't have an undergraduate art degree, but one in Women's Studies with a focus on queer theory. Chantal Mouffe's essay "Artistic Activism and Agonistic Spaces" got me riled up.1 It's a very dense and inspiring text. It's so earthshaking to me to challenge how you actually think and read. I also dove into some Lacanian stuff, but I am still swimming around in that muck—circling, as they say. I love reading, but at a certain point when I am making art, I have to put down the book and just trust that the information is there. I'm not out to prove any theories. That's a position I take. It's one of anti-oppositional politics. I think it is often assumed that feminist work is trying to prove something, which is bizarre to me. The assumption that feminism is inherently didactic or polemic is so patriarchal.

K8 Hardy + Wynne Greenwood, New Report Artist Unknown, 2007, performance documentation (photo: A.L. Steiner)

MW: Your definition of anti-oppositional politics makes me think of New Report, 2005, the performance you did with Wynne Greenwood at Reena Spaulings, and New Report Live at Tate Modern in 2007. In the work, you dove into heady Lacanian theory with a certain playfulness. For example, you were news broadcasters on a fictional feminist television network. You played "Henry Irigaray," a riff on the feminist theorist Luce Irigaray. How do you approach such thick topics without looking like you are trying to prove something?

KH: I'm not trying to prove something—that's why I probably don't look like I am. Seriously though, I understand what you are asking because my work is playful and I have fun, while art associated with heady theory is usually anti-aesthetic and conceptual.

Everything you read gets mixed up with what you know. Critical thinking and reading busts open the way you think. That's what I like about it. It's challenging. I work in this space of an exploded patriarchy, inside out, where the bits of its structure are exposed to me. That's my location. It affects how I feel and what I see. I'm getting all hippy here, but it is totally meta for me like that.

K8 Hardy + Stefan Tcherepnin, Bare Life, 2008, performance (courtesy of the artist and Reena Spaulings, New York; photo: Sam Gordon)

MW: A curator whom you worked with at the Tate described the location of your work as a "stuttering environment."2 It is that ambiguity that I was trying to get at because your work acknowledges the wonderful slippage that happens in any translation or abstract thought. Can you talk about how this played out in your recent performance, Bare Life?

KH: It's nice that you mention reference to abstract thought. For me, Bare Life is most like an abstract painting. It was a project with the musician Stefan Tcherepnin, who is an amazing sound artist—an exploration of total expression. We produced a really incredible amount of tension together in that piece. It was a response to Giorgio Agamben's concept of "Bare Life," so then it became about the choices I make.3 "Bare Life" was one of the leitmotifs of Documenta 12. LTTR's magazine was a part of it, so it was on my mind at the time. So, I questioned and became intrigued by the relationship between exposure and social or structural protection. At the same time, while the specific politics motivated me and served as the basis for the performance text, I didn't need to tell my audience straightforwardly. It's part of my process but the piece is a performance, not a lecture. Bare Life was very different from most of my other performances because I wanted to just dive totally into affect. It was awesome but I don't think I could ever do it again. I completely exposed myself. The audience knows when you make yourself that vulnerable. It was almost like a shamanistic ritual, but not on purpose. Afterwards I realized I had done something real, besides completely deplete myself.

MW: Could you expand on this notion of "doing something real?" It seems suspicious, if not naïve, to use terms like "real" or "authentic." Are you offering a way around this problem?

KH: Yes, it is a very problematic term. I don't think it can ever be neatly defined because it can always be turned on its head. In that performance, my use of the term means that I reached the place where the performativity was not an act. It was exactly what I was feeling at the moment. I use the term "real" very casually. It's hard because, while there is a use for this word, it doesn't hold any water. It is a very subjective word. Yet I do feel compelled to use the term on a larger scale. While I could blow apart ideas of authenticity, I also believe that real, lived experiences do count for something that I would call authentic. It's loaded, as they say, and I do think Bare Life is part of this debate. I think it does offer a way out.

MW: In Bare Life, seemingly unscripted and improvisational actions conveyed some of that authenticity. In addition, the theatrical use of light, your costume, and the modulation of your voice gave it a sort of amateurish or nonchalant quality. What aesthetic and formal decisions did you make in this piece?

K8 Hardy + Stefan Tcherepnin, Bare Life, 2008, performance (courtesy of the artist and Reena Spaulings, New York)

KH: My costume and makeup were my strong aesthetic decisions. I wanted to wear something that, totally out there in the land of freakery, didn't make an attempt to look fashionable. This is hard to do, I think. I had Jennifer Banks, an old friend who is a costume designer in Portland, Oregon, design the costume. We worked together on the idea. It was inspired by punk, wild creatures, and low materials. I wanted something that stood on its own. I also wanted people to wonder, where did that come from? I was thinking about abstract paintings, the gestures that are associated with them, and costume and makeup. It ended up looking more tribal than I expected, but I kind of liked that. No other formal decisions were made. The day of the performance, I had all the light turned off because enough daylight was coming in. I guess that is also a decision, no matter when you make it. It was a really bold decision to dance and move with no formal dance or singing training. I did my own explorations of my body in these modes of art, but I really don't know anything about them. Sometimes I put my work out there and hope that its amateur style will inspire someone else. I'm not saying this piece was all surprise, but it was process. I didn't know exactly what I was doing, nothing was timed out perfectly.

K8 Hardy, Untitled Self Portrait (courtesy of the artist and Reena Spaulings, New York)

MW: Your reference to paint, a loaded art historical language, captures the paradox at the heart of the theory of bare life: to reach an authentic, spiritual or pure state outside of the political, one has to rely upon certain social structures or rules. It seems that you have captured this paradox in the way you go back and forth between a theoretical framework and a willingness to allow a somewhat serendipitous process dictate an outcome.

K8 Hardy, Performance Panties Self Portrait, 2008, performance (courtesy of the artist and Reena Spaulings, New York)

KH: Well, at a certain point, you have to put the book down. If you don't, your work becomes very safe. If you don't take any risks, it ends up being quite boring—even if you are saying something fantastic.

I prefer to have more of a structure when I work, as in New Report, my project with Wynne Greenwood. That has a longer life than just an expressive freak out. Right now, I am working on a different kind of project for the street-level storefront at Art In General. It is called COMPANY and is the brainchild of sculptor Fawn Krieger. It is modeled after Claes Oldenberg's Store, 1961. I was approached to create a product for the store. I don't really make objects; I make images. As such, this project has been quite a challenge. I decided on a more conceptual approach and made a line of Performance Panties. There are ten pairs in this line. If you purchase a pair, you will be able to buy a one-of-a-kind video of my performance in that pair of panties. Now, it's not about hanging out naked in my underwear, but rather selling myself as an artist. I think performance artists have desires and needs that are different from those of their audience.

MW: Performance changes our relationship to our consumption of an object. In Performance Panties, you extend that even further. In a handwritten note that is displayed in the store, you ask the person who is buying the work to complete it in a way. Buyers have to communicate their desire to you by requesting the video—which completes and documents the performance. They are suddenly the vulnerable party. The project's success is its reversal of the passive activity of purchase. And, part of the irony is that the object of purchase is a high-performance, high-waist polyester undergarment, made to protect and conceal the body. Because of this type of exchange, I am also thinking about your audience. In a past interview, you said you are not really interested in reaching a general public. Who do you want to communicate with, in that moment?

Vincent Dilio, portrait of K8 Hardy, 1998 (courtesy of Vincent Dilio, New York)

KH: I don't have a specific set of faces and people in mind. Sometimes I do things for myself and sometimes I consider my peers. I mostly want to be in conversation with people who will respond, who will talk back, and who will be responsible for their side of the communication. For me, the goal of my performance is to communicate with the audience. It doesn't always happen. Sometimes they leave by the hundreds. I do think that several New Report performances with Wynne Greenwood were successful on this level. I am not being completely literal when I say "communication." Often it is just a vibe. Wynne and I did a morning performance at Reena Spaulings called New Report: Objectification. The audience was so engaged that some people were crying. It became intense for everyone involved. That was a great performance.

MW: In the opening essay of the past issue of LTTR, editor Emily Roysdon explained that the issue's theme, "conceptually nasty," takes shape as a "light-footed persistence." Your approach also seems informed by this notion. How does your collective work with LTTR relate to your own practice?

Vincent Dilio, portrait of K8 Hardy, 1998 (courtesy of Vincent Dilio, New York)

KH: We, LTTR, have shared political and artistic investments. The collective has given us all a space to experience the meaning of the concept of collectivity for our individual work. My practice may seem haphazard but it is strategic. My awareness of individual artistic process is a product of the fun and difficulty that comes from collective work. I take risks all the time, in challenging the concepts of stable identities and power. We constantly confronted these concepts in the years when we practiced together as LTTR. Emily's idea of "light-footedness" is about engaging an elusive playfulness that doesn't necessarily require a manifesto. It is also obviously and seriously engaged in political agendas. In this sense, LTTR provides a loose platform of political and aesthetic forms that we have all had a chance to work with and can be an inspiration for our own work. By no means can I really speak for everyone specifically, but this is my impression. My personal work gets wilder and I take more risks. For instance, one of my projects, Fashionfashion, plunders the world of representations by way of clothing and self-presentation. I don't think I would have gone there before LTTR. My serious concerns would have trumped having a bit of fun in my work. I'm really pleased that I felt freed up like that, but can really only see it retrospectively. I love collaborating and working with other artists. It just gives me so much perspective.

Danielle Levitt, K8 Hardy, 2008 (courtesy of Danielle Levitt, New York)

MW: Our exchange has now turned into a five-month conversation. All this time, I have held back the urge to bring up the slogan "the personal is political." Not only does it seem defunct, but it also seems like an easy formula to pin down your practice, which is indeed indebted to artists like Carolee Schneeman, who powerfully explored how they could use subjectivity and their own body as a political tool in the late 1960s. Does that phrase have any resonance for you?

Danielle Levitt, K8 Hardy, 2008 (courtesy of Danielle Levitt, New York)

KH: "The personal is political" still holds true. I don't think about it every day, but I feel that it is something I live consciously. It's the ground I walk on.

Michelle White is Assistant Curator at The Menil Collection, Houston. She is a frequent contributor to ART PAPERS, and a regional editor for Art Lies: A Contemporary Art Quarterly. Her essay on Robyn OsNeil's recent work was featured in ART PAPERS 32:2 (March-April 2008).