I’m still bruised (watching them fade) from the performance and from spending the past week pining after Baku. I can’t take me anywhere without tears and some sort of silent tantrum these days. But it, was w o n d e r f u l, all of it. The performance worked like a charm, though I ended up performing once on the opening night of the Biennale for the Baku elite, the organisers and the Minister of Culture and his aides, all twenty or so of them? I thought I saw a small girl watching also at one point? Can’t rely on performance memory… It wasn’t my intention to be so exclusive but it was like being in the former Yugoslavia again, leftovers of socialism and soviet mentality regimenting everything and everyone into their set place and set time: “The Minister will be here to watch you perform in five minutes.” I tried to organise performing it again for everyone but the ‘iron’ tape got in the way and several days later it was somehow already too late. But rumours about the performance spread and I felt fantastic for having pulled it off and the parts that were above and beyond my control were pure performance magic and the reason I perform at all. I met three very special people there, Taus, Francisco and Miha (if you’re reading this, I miss you!) and managed on the very edge of myself to stay on the right side of sanity for the seven days and not let the spell of Baku overwhelm me, at least not completely. I lost a part of myself in Baku, I mean not counting the literal stuff; my bank card (false alarm), my Alice in Wonderland earnings in Miha’s room, my scarf at an artist’s studio and one morning the entire complement of breakfast staff made a spectacular unwitting performance raising tablecloths and brushing upholstery and prodding carpets when I lost my tiny silver seahorse and so on and so forth. I lost something every day. I even lost my guard, in the strange and comforting solidarity of my newly found friends’ company. And then it was over, as clumsily as only life could possibly be. So I’m left with the things that I gained; three friends for life, a pseudonym, ‘Madame Boucheron’ on account of wearing ripped out catalogue pages featuring outrageous chandelier necklaces and matching earrings and so forth; a suspended moment in time where according to my conspirator ‘Monsieur Piaget’s’ giant catalogue page wristwatch it will always be 10 past 10; a part of myself; and of course these bruises.