In her online, durational performance, 1001 nights, artist Barbara Campbell cast a story into the ether every night for 1001 nights from 21 June 2005, to 17 March 2008. Each had been written for her during the day by a pool of 243 writers scattered across the globe.
That day, seven years ago, we were in the hospital waiting room. Time warping under the pressure of stress. Adam searched the magazines. Who Weekly—someone whose breasts had gone wrong. He shifted in his chair—no newspapers, flicked glumly through Equine Monthly, horse flanks gleaming like thighs in Cleo. Beside me, a young woman started weeping quietly.
She’d already been inside the next room. We all pretended not to look as each patient filed out, ashen-faced. From the door, light rippling in green ribbons. All of us transported toward something unforgettable.
‘Lie still in the chamber. Try not to blink.’
The weeping woman sat alone, unreading. I had an urge to hand her my baby. But was too afraid of what might happen if I let go.
The door opened. My turn.