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Brian Feldman Writes His Last Will & Testament

Brian Feldman Writes His Last Will & Testament

Featuring Brian Feldman

Who the heck starts a performance art piece at NOON on a Wednesday? Geesh, some of us still have day jobs. I dashed home after a Mega-Boss style meeting and quickly logged on to this …um…. Unexpected? Unnerving?…Un…finished…project?

“Brian Feldman Writes his Last Will& Testament” only appears on Facebook and after spending the morning wrestling with a new Skype, I’m already burnt out by technology. But this show came up easily enough. We discover Feldman typing on a laptop in a closet with only the glare of the screen illuminating him. Feldman sports a red tee shirt. His beard is a touch of white, and I assume ants are involved in deboning that skeleton hanging behind him. Little to nothing is said, the audio intersperses “Closet Ambience” with short bursts of clicking keyboard. Brian shifts position from time to time, and occasional, breathy moments of sighing from Brian animate the event. Is his text streaming somewhere? If it is, I can’t find it.

I arrived near the end of this three hour Art-A-Thon and we only have ten official minutes to go. A picture will enliven this review, but my laptop doesn’t have that useful “Print Screen” button. Dang. I find a dozen useless downloads on the net, all full of crap ware. AHA! The Microsoft Snip Tool! With an unexpected set of keystrokes, and I have a decent picture of Feldman locked in a closet. Now that I review the picture, Feldman may well be typing a revolutionary manuscript to burns society to the ground. Well, that’s not much worse the reality these days.

Implacably, Feldman continues to type. I continue to stress. Some mutual friends’ names float by in the comment feed: Sprung, Kubersky, Roberts, Watman. Orange County Art Czar Terry Olson comments; and I find comfort in a small part of our governance a man comes in everyday to do its job.

The clock is ticking down, less than a minute to go now.

Three p.m. on my clock. I think Feldman is doing a last minute edit. Hard to say. His eyes dart furtively. Typos? Forgotten diamonds? Long lost uncles? That woman he married a few years ago and then divorced? Me? Oh, I hope I get an Estate or a used Mercedes. A critic can dream, can’t he?

Now it’s 3:01. Feldman places his right arm is on his left shoulder. He stares intently at this document. Is it spelled correctly? Is it grammatically perfect? Legally sound? Feldman has some legal background, and he IS a perfectionist.

With my cursor, I tickle his nose. No response. Feldman remains focused.

A Feld-message pops up on my laptop. I have yet to “share” on my FB page. Better hurry, I WANT that Estate! I WANT that Mercedes. And I’m willing to wait. There’s not much left of my retirement after the past few weeks.

At 3:13 Feldman stops typing. He stretches, and continues to stare at his screen, like he’s starring in some perverted self-referential “Performance Art Event.” How much can he have to pass out? His signed “Brian Feldman Button Collection?” He sold all his stuff years ago at “The 48 Hour Yard Sale.” I know, I bought some of it.

I step away for a moment. Upon my return, Brian is gone, a PSA sits in his place, and presumably he’s off to find a notary.

I’ll let you know how the Estate thing turns out.

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