ROCIO BOLIVER, aka, THE CONGELADA DE UVA
Doing performances is the only way I can get my own back on life, which has me by the balls.
It’s my way of giving it the finger and mocking it; of losing my fragility and believing I can go beyond death.
Taking courage, transgressing and not being afraid of anything, destroying the boundaries the hold me back.
That’s the great possibility that the bubble of Action Art offers me.
No sanity, no orthodoxy, no rules, no questioning, no guidelines.
Plunging into madness and coming out not just unscathed, but all the more lucid, all the more sane.
What better than to dive headlong into the forbidden, perverse, censored, singled-out topics to gird myself against the passing of time, which is leading to the destruction of my vitality, my charm, my lucidity, my beauty, my strength.
Sex, drugs, philias, pain, scatology…
Tearing, yanking off the mask of that great lie created by man, that putrid way of communicating with one another. Disgusted by everyday lies, by the acceptance of hypocrisy as a passport.
I vomit on everyone, I shit on their faces, I scare them and make ’em suffer, I put ’em between a rock and a hard place.
I feel blessed when I leave those who watch, listen to or feel what I do flabbergasted. Happy to wipe their stupid Hollywood smiles off their faces, throw them off their makeshift scaffolding and watch them fall and tumble into oblivion, with nothing to grab onto: this is a game they haven’t been taught to play.
They’re electroshocks I apply to listless, alienated minds that expect me to amuse them, that flirt naively with the tingle of morbid fascination and end up thrashed, overtaken, speechless idiots.
The bottom line expressed as a slap, that’s performance.
The only space where I can play out and wallow in my most perverse, incoherent musings without being thrown in jail or locked up in a lunatic asylum.
It’s the last resort of my despair, the fix that keeps me going ‘til my next action.
How far can you go when you’re offered a space of complete freedom, how much are you prepared to go out on a limb?
‘Cos you’re on your own here.
Those outside see how you lay yourself bare, how you stumble, slip and slide, how you contagiously segregate adrenaline, fear, arousal, and your palpitations boil over into your audacity against a world that charges a high price for daring to be.
But the art of performance protects me; it’s my ally and punishes the meddling of censorship and reprimand or attempted castration by turning them all into part of the show.
If anyone dares to indulge in such actions during a performance, they’ll be devoured and end up being part of the furniture, thus enriching the transgression.
Performance swallows everything; it’s voracious, precise, skilful, categorical in the struggle against idiocy.
Congelada de Uva’s constant references to sex.
If sex were accepted without further ado, I’d latch on other subjects, the forbidden ones, the ones that freak us out: hence the customary reference to sex, because I know it’s the big Achilles’ heel, a way of hitting the target, of turning into a surefire Ninja who flicks deadly poisoned stars from her sleeve to sink them into the most vulnerable parts.
What would you rather not talk about, for the Congelada to shout about it?
What are you all ashamed of, for the Congelada to show it?
What are you afraid of, for the Congelada to bring it out in the open?
What shouldn’t be done, for the Congelada to do it?
Those are the starting points for my Action Art and thus for my life.