The Boycottgirls kick down the partition and step out of the women’s section. In the Living Gallery, it is no longer enough to ask: art or life, or art as life? There is eternity and there is place; there are forms, and there are troubles. And so they clear away the sculptures and install paradoxes in their place. They gather poles and set out to build the dove of peace through their dance. “Hush, boys! This is the morning prayer!” Day after day, morning after morning, they rehearse. At noon, they turn to writing pop songs about sorrow. Again and again, they return, taking pleasure in the impregnability of the BPM. “I’ve got a Tropit!” cried one artist, breaking into a samba. Another Boycottgirl, recognizing the trouble, joined the dance. And the audience, with sorrow in its heart, hums: “Eyn li eretz. I have no country.”
