Hey, Art Lover!

This week, we dive into the dynamic world of performance art. First, we explore the layered, collaborative work of M. Lohrum, whose performances blend movement, participation, and meditative drawing. Next, we examine the bold, interdisciplinary art of Daniel Rey, whose practice navigates themes of queerness, migration, and identity. Finally, we unpack why performance art continues to captivate audiences, challenging our perceptions and offering visceral, shared experiences.

Inside the Work of M. Lohrum

This week, I sat down with M. Lohrum, an artist whose work I’ve been quietly obsessed with for a while now. Meeting her felt like watching a magician reveal the card trick from behind the curtain. She explained her process with a level of precision that somehow makes the chaotic beauty of her work seem inevitable. M.’s work feels layered in a way that most art aspires to but rarely achieves—there’s the initial performance, the social interaction when multiple people collaborate, and then the tangible product, often a drawing. Each piece seems to exist on three planes at once, but none can fully exist without the others.

Of course, M.’s work is not limited to these collaborative performances; she also creates drawings in her studio, using similar methods that she described as meditative. In both her performances and studio work, the process is deeply repetitive and cyclical, allowing a certain fluidity in creation. Her studio pieces carry the same tension between control and unpredictability that defines her live performances.

What struck me immediately during our conversation was how much control she exercises over something that seems, well, uncontrolled. Her process starts with what she calls a “blueprint” that participants follow as they work. The performances I’ve seen from her all involve movement—a kind of repetitive, cyclical action that transforms into marks on a surface. The human body becomes the brush, and the art almost sneaks up on you. It’s meditative in its repetition, yet unpredictable enough to keep you alert. You can never quite guess what will happen next, but the outcome always feels inevitable.

M., who splits her time between London and Tenerife, has a background as wide-ranging as her work. Born in the Canary Islands, she studied Fine Arts at the University of La Laguna (where she now teaches) before continuing her education at Central Saint Martins in London. Over the years, she’s moved between drawing, video, and performance, with each medium informing the other in ways that blur the boundaries between them. Her work grapples with uncertainty and change, both in the broader social world and in the microcosm of artistic creation. Perhaps that’s why it feels so visceral—it speaks to the constant state of flux we all live in.

What really captivates me about M.’s performances is how they work on multiple levels, even for those of us standing on the sidelines, trying to make sense of the action. Watching her work, you can’t help but feel that you’re somehow part of it.

What’s truly fascinating is that the art doesn’t reside in any one place. It’s not just in the performance or the final drawing; it’s in the space between those things, in the social interaction and the shared experience of creation.

M.’s approach to art is nothing if not collaborative. She’s deeply invested in the idea that her work isn’t just her own—it belongs to the participants, the audience, and everyone who comes into contact with it. The blueprint she gives to her participants is just the starting point. From there, the work takes on a life of its own, shaped by the people, the space, and the moment. It’s a kind of artistic democracy, where control is both given and taken away, creating a tension that makes the final product feel alive.

And those marks—the drawings that result from the performances—they’re not just the evidence of an event. They’re living records of something ephemeral, something that existed only briefly but still left a trace. The cyclical movements, the repetition, and the slight variations that come with each stroke all reflect a kind of human fragility. The drawings, like the performances, are both delicate and bold, temporary yet permanent. They are, in essence, a mirror of the human condition.

As we wrapped up our conversation, I asked M. where she sees her work going next. She smiled and shrugged in that way artists do when they’re not quite sure but know they’re on the right path. She said she’s most interested in continuing to push the boundaries of collaboration.

And that’s what keeps me coming back to her work—this sense that anything could happen, that every performance is a new conversation between artist, participant, and viewer.

The first work I saw by Venezuelan-Spanish artist Daniel Rey was a performance of a group of men in white t-shirts and jeans caressing each other on a large denim cushion, oblivious to the audience around them. This might sound kinky, but it wasn’t—it was rather tender.

Daniel is a London-based artist steadily gaining attention with his fearless, interdisciplinary approach. His work spans installation, performance, moving image, and painting, tackling themes that aren’t exactly light dinner conversation: masculinity, queerness, migration, and the built environment. His work interrogates how we perceive bodies in space, how architecture shapes identity, and, most intriguingly, how the two intersect in queer narratives.

But Daniel doesn’t stop at merely questioning existing systems—he’s reimagining them. His pieces challenge us to consider what new, more liberating structures might look like, particularly for queer individuals navigating societal power structures. This idea of liberation is rooted in his personal experience as a Venezuelan, navigating the turbulence of identity, politics, and culture.

Growing up in Venezuela, against a backdrop of economic and political upheaval, Daniel’s artistic imagination was shaped by instability and transformation. That experience of chaos, of constantly shifting ground beneath your feet, runs through his work. It’s deeply personal, but it’s also universal. The concept of migration, of being displaced, is something millions of Venezuelans can relate to. For Daniel, home isn’t just a physical space—it’s a malleable idea. His work invites us to think about how home changes for those uprooted and how collective memory can help rebuild a sense of place, even when the place itself is physically gone or unrecognizable.

Daniel’s work is far from static. His performances blur the line between art and life, inviting audiences into experiences that feel both intimate and public. For example, “Collective Cuddles” (my first exposure to his work), showcased at Bloomberg New Contemporaries, is about creating queer kinship through a shared experience. It’s in the overlap of bodies, the shared space, where new social possibilities begin to emerge. There’s something profound in how he uses the body itself—its movements, its presence—as a medium for connection and contemplation.

Similarly, his performance and installation Why Do Swimmers Suddenly Appear touches on the fluidity of identity and belonging. The swimmers, caught in motion, are neither here nor there, constantly in transition. Daniel uses this image to explore what it means to be a queer body in a world that so often tries to confine and categorize. The installation itself is a dialogue between physical space and mental space, asking the audience to consider how we move through both, particularly when the structures around us aren’t built to support who we are.

One can feel the tension between the raw and the poetic in Daniel’s work—sometimes fragile, sometimes bold, always balancing on the edge of control and chaos. His practice feels like a reflection of the world he comes from: unpredictable, complex, and in constant flux.

Daniel’s work resonates on both a personal and collective level. It challenges us to rethink the spaces we inhabit—whether physical, emotional, or societal—and to imagine what freedom could look like within them. His work is an invitation to consider not just where we are, but who we are becoming.

The Appeal of Performance art

Performance art is one of those things that can be hard to pin down—like trying to explain a dream you had the night before or that strange feeling you get when you recognize someone in a crowd but can’t place them. It’s art, sure, but it’s also an experience, an interaction, a moment shared between performer and audience. If you’ve ever seen a performance art piece, you’ve probably walked away feeling a little unsure of what just happened, but also oddly connected to the whole thing. That’s part of the appeal. But why does it work? What is it about performance art that manages to draw us in, to make us feel something deeper than just looking at more traditional forms of art?

First, let’s get one thing straight: performance art is not the same as theater. Yes, there’s a performer and an audience, but that’s about where the similarities end. In theater, there’s a script, a set, a goal to tell a story with a beginning, middle, and end. In performance art, the line between performer and audience can blur, the “story” can be abstract, and often the piece evolves as it happens. The audience isn’t just a passive observer; they’re part of the piece itself. There’s often no curtain call or applause break. The performance can be as short as a blink or stretch on for hours. In some cases, it’s not even clear when it begins or ends.

For an example, think of Marina Abramović sitting at a table at MoMA for The Artist is Present, staring into the eyes of strangers for hours on end. Or Yoko Ono’s Cut Piece, where she sat on stage while audience members took scissors and cut pieces of her clothing off, bit by bit. These performances are raw, real, and often uncomfortable—because the artist’s vulnerability demands something from the audience, too.

Which brings me to the secret sauce behind why performance art works: mirror neurons. These tiny brain cells are the reason we cringe when someone gets hit on screen or why we smile when someone else is laughing. Mirror neurons fire when we perform an action and when we observe someone else performing the same action. In other words, when you watch someone go through an intense emotional or physical experience—like in performance art—your brain is almost tricked into thinking it’s happening to you.

In performance art, this mirroring goes beyond mere empathy. The artist’s vulnerability, their physical presence, and often their invitation for the audience to engage directly with the piece can trigger a sense of shared experience that’s hard to shake. If you watch someone like Abramović sit motionless for hours, there’s a strange, almost subconscious part of you that feels the stillness, the tension, the endurance. The mirror neurons are firing away, creating a connection that goes beyond intellectual understanding.

Performance art also taps into something primal. When you strip away the layers of conventional art—brushstrokes, framing, etc.—you’re left with the most fundamental element of creation: the body. And bodies are unpredictable, vulnerable, and, most importantly, relatable. We all have one, and we all experience the world through it. Watching an artist use their body as an instrument of endurance takes us to a place where art becomes human again.

Performance art, for all its unpredictability and rawness, is fundamentally about presence—about being there in the moment. When you’re in the room with a performance artist, there’s no hiding, no second take, no editing. The art is happening in real time, and you’re a part of it whether you like it or not.

So, why do people keep showing up to art performances, unsure of what to expect but willing to dive in anyway? Maybe it’s because, deep down, we know that art—like life—isn’t about perfect execution or clear answers. It’s about being present, being vulnerable, and sometimes, being willing to feel something, even when we don’t fully understand it.

This week, I met a collector whose passion for art is matched only by that of his wife. Together, they really get into the story behind each piece they own. What I found most refreshing about them, though, is how unpretentious their approach to collecting is. Their collection showcases million-dollar masterpieces alongside works by unknown artists. The unifying theme? A genuine love for art, free from any snobbery or concern for status—just pure appreciation.

See you next week!

Pato