Finger Pointed Right at Me

I want to talk about one of the most terrifying things that occurred to me in the recent future.

A few weekends ago, my friend and I went to Dlectricity, an outdoor art show featuring electricity. The eclectic exhibits featured sculptures made of light fixtures, laser shows, and flashlight performances. The most memorable one wasn’t the brightest one or the the one that flashed the most but a fairly simple one.

It was called Psychic Effects: A Delicate Balance and it was by Dana Bell. It was a like a department store’s window display, only the background was a video collage of famous horror scenes and the mannequins were expressionless women dancing as if they were in a trance.

It was enchanting and appalling at the same time. They still haunt me, those bizarre dance movements of the women who seemed trapped behind the glass yet liberated at the same time because they seemed to know something that no one in the audience did.

The most memorable part of the exhibit was when in the middle of the odd dance sequence, both the “mannequins” lifted their hand and pointed at the audience. And didn’t lower their hand. I waited. And waited. And waited. But their hand didn’t lower. The crowd started shifting uncomfortably and it wasn’t from the chilly breeze outside. Their fingers were pointing vaguely toward at us and the only movement was their hand gliding so that the finger pointed at everyone. It was accusatory and accused of all the sins we had committed and waited for us to crumple up with guilt. And the crowd was now a unified body eager to defend itself against this wordless, indeterminate allegation.

And I waited. For those women, with their terrifying lack of disappointment, frustration, anger, or any expression whatsoever on their face, to lower their finger. I wanted to plead with them, tell them that I had done nothing wrong and it was unfair of them to point their finger at me when I was innocent of whatever they were accusing me of. Nothing. They kept pointing. The void of expression now seemed cruel. I was on an open street but couldn’t move. It seemed that their fingers and blank gazes were holding me and would not release me until I gave them something.

And finally, after what seemed to be eternity, they lowered their fingers and continued with their outlandish choreography. I released the breath that I did not realize I was holding in. I refocused on the sidewalk I was on, in the city I was in, and the people I was next to. I still do not know what occurred at that moment but I understand that it was something gripping and evocative and paralyzing.

As I looked around the crowd, I noticed I had not been the only one holding my breath in.