When I first meet Marina Abramović, she is busy cajoling a man into modelling an apron. “Please,” she coos. Her entreaties work and he gives in, wrapping the garment’s ties around his waist to show off the front of it, which is covered in rudimentary drawings of penises. Dozens of them. Abramović laughs, taking girlish delight in the phallic doodles, and looks at me: “What do you think?”
I’ve come to Manchester, where Abramović is staging her latest exhibition, overly prepared with pages of questions. At 78, she is a formidable pop culture presence, a pioneering performance artist whose works are considered to be among the most important of the 20th century. But now the first question is lobbed at me, what do I think of this apron of dicks? It’s a turn of events I haven’t prepared for. Although maybe I should’ve.
