I believe so much in the power of performance I don't want to

Host: The gallery was half-lit, its white walls glowing faintly beneath the hum of fluorescent lights. In the center of the room stood a long wooden table, empty but for a single glass of water, a knife, and a mirror—objects of ritual and challenge. The air smelled faintly of paint and metal, that peculiar scent of art mixed with human sweat and silence.

Jack leaned against a pillar, his arms crossed, his suit slightly disheveled, his expression skeptical but alert. Jeeny stood closer to the installation, her eyes soft, her hands clasped loosely, as if she were in the presence of something sacred.

Host: Around them, the crowd whispered, then dispersed, leaving the two of them alone with the echo of performance.

Jeeny: “Marina Abramović once said, ‘I believe so much in the power of performance I don't want to convince people. I want them to experience it and come away convinced on their own.’” (Her voice carried lightly in the stillness, each word deliberate, as if testing its own truth.) “I think she meant that art shouldn’t explain—it should transform. You shouldn’t have to tell people what to feel. They should feel it.”

Jack: (scoffs softly, tilting his head) “Transform, huh? That’s a poetic way of saying ‘manipulate emotions for effect.’ All this performance art—it’s just shock therapy disguised as philosophy. You can stand naked in a room, stare at strangers for six hours, and call it ‘truth.’ But what’s the point if it’s just spectacle?”

Jeeny: “Because sometimes spectacle is the only way left to speak. When words have lost their meaning, you have to show truth, not say it. That’s what Abramović does—she strips the moment of language, until all that’s left is the raw presence between people.”

Jack: “Presence? Or performance? There’s a difference. You think standing still in front of someone is spiritual. I think it’s theater. You want people to believe in experience; I want them to think about meaning. Feeling is temporary—truth should last.”

Host: The light above them flickered, casting shadows that moved slowly across the floor. Jeeny’s eyes caught the flicker, her expression steady, her breath quiet. Jack’s voice carried the tone of a man trying to find solid ground in a world built on air.

Jeeny: “But what if truth isn’t meant to last? What if it’s something we can only touch for a moment—through an act, through pain, through stillness? You know, when Abramović did her piece The Artist Is Present, she just sat there, silent, looking into people’s eyes. No script, no speech. Some of them cried, some couldn’t handle it. That wasn’t manipulation, Jack. That was communion.”

Jack: “Or conditioning. You put someone in a white room, you tell them this is profound, they start weeping on cue. People want to feel something so badly they’ll project meaning on emptiness. It’s the placebo effect of art.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the mirror effect. She wasn’t showing them anything new—she was showing them themselves. That’s what real performance does—it doesn’t preach, it provokes. It doesn’t tell you what to believe, it forces you to meet your own silence.”

Host: The mirror on the table caught a sliver of light, splitting it into a thin beam that fell across Jack’s face. He blinked, and for an instant, the reflection trembled, as if it too was listening.

Jack: “You make it sound sacred. But tell me this—how is staring at someone for hours any more honest than a politician’s speech or a priest’s sermon? They’re all performance. They all aim to convince.”

Jeeny: (steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly, voice lowering) “No, Jack. The difference is intent. A politician wants power. A priest wants faith. But an artist—she wants presence. She wants you to confront what’s real without anyone mediating it for you. Abramović doesn’t say, ‘Believe me.’ She says, ‘See for yourself.’ That’s not performance. That’s vulnerability.”

Jack: “Vulnerability as spectacle. Pain as proof. You bleed in public, people call it profound. But isn’t that just another way of needing validation?”

Jeeny: “Or liberation. When she cut herself in Rhythm 0, when she let the audience do whatever they wanted to her, she was showing us something terrifying—that when given power, humans reveal who they are. And yet she didn’t speak, didn’t interfere. That’s the power of performance—it holds a mirror to the parts of us we refuse to name.”

Host: The room grew quieter, the hiss of the lights fading into a kind of charged stillness. Jeeny’s words filled the space like smoke—soft but impossible to ignore. Jack’s eyes drifted to the mirror again, where his own face looked back at him, pale, fractured by the light.

Jack: “You really believe art can do that—change people without saying a word?”

Jeeny: “It changed me. When I saw one of her performances in person, I stood there for an hour. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. And I realized—I couldn’t either. It wasn’t about her. It was about my discomfort, my impulse to flee from stillness. That’s what performance does—it doesn’t tell you a story. It makes you live one.”

Jack: “And yet, the moment it ends, everyone pulls out their phones, takes pictures, and walks away. Epiphany on a schedule.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Yes. But for some of them, something lingers. Maybe just a second of truth. That’s enough. You can’t force awakening—but you can create the space for it.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the gallery windows, shaking the glass slightly. A poster on the wall flapped softly—a photo of Abramović herself, eyes closed, hands open, face serene.

Jack turned toward it, his brow furrowed, his mouth softening.

Jack: “You know, when I was in college, I watched a dancer perform blindfolded on the edge of a building. I thought it was reckless. But afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way she trusted herself. The way she trusted gravity not to lie. Maybe… that’s what you’re talking about. The kind of truth you don’t reason with—you just experience.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Exactly. You see? You didn’t need to be convinced. You lived it.”

Jack: (smirks faintly) “So maybe I’m not as immune to performance as I thought.”

Jeeny: “No one is. Because performance isn’t about pretending—it’s about revealing. When it’s real, it’s a kind of honesty the mind can’t argue with.”

Host: The light dimmed, and the last flicker of the projector threw their shadows together on the wall—two figures merging into one long shape. Outside, the city murmured, but here, in this small space of silence and reflection, something shifted.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? I came here ready to mock all this. But now… I can’t stop feeling like she’s still here, in this room somehow. Watching us.”

Jeeny: (softly, smiling) “She is. Because the performance doesn’t end when the lights go out. It ends when the feeling does. And maybe it hasn’t yet.”

Host: The gallery lights flickered once more, like a final heartbeat, before settling into calm. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, both staring at their reflections in the mirror on the table.

The knife caught a thin blade of light. The glass of water trembled slightly, disturbed by the vibration of the world beyond the walls.

Host: They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The moment had its own language—one beyond persuasion, beyond logic.

It was the language of presence.

Host: And in that stillness, they both understood Marina Abramović’s truth:
that the most powerful performances are not the ones that convince—
but the ones that let you convince yourself.

Host: Outside, the city kept rushing, but inside that quiet room,
the present stood perfectly still—
and for once,
no one looked away.