A meal with a Polish friend. A demonstration of America's treatment of other countries.
On a previous trip to Poland, I read the LOT Airline magazine on the flight from Warsaw and Gdansk, which featured an article directed towards Polish businesses that were seeking contracts in Iraq. It explained that simply because Poland had sent troops to assist the US in the Iraq war didn’t mean that Polish businesses would automatically be awarded contracts. The article advised them on competitive bids, honoring deadlines, etc., reminding them that their work would be governed by American law.
Foreign Policy II was performed at the Interakcje Festival in the city of Piotrkow Trybunalski, in the large upstairs room of the former Europa Restaurant. In advance, I arranged to get a dinner for two: hot spaghetti and meatballs, bread and butter, and a bottle of red wine. The table was set with a white tablecloth, china dishes and silverware, and a vase full of blooming lilies of the valley: an elegant dinner for two.
In advance, I had also asked Przemyslaw Kwiek, one of the Polish artists, if he would be willing to join me in the performance. My instructions to him were simple: I asked him to eat a meal with me, as calmly and politely as he could. I also told him that if he wanted to leave at any point, he could, or that I might ask him to leave.
The table with the steaming meal was set up, and the performance announced in Polish. “This is “Foreign Policy†by American artist Marilyn Arsem.†Since the performance was taking place right at dinnertime, the audience was hungry, and some expressed the desire to join us at the table as well. I added, “Don’t worry, I am sure that there will be plenty for everyone!†and it was duly translated.
I then sat down at the table with my colleague, Przemyslaw. We began by opening the wine, and making a toast to Polish-American friendship. Then I served him and we began to enjoy the meal together.
However, as the meal progressed, I began to serve less to him, and more to myself. At first he did not notice, as I did it discretely. But I became bolder, and when I took food off his plate he was truly taken aback. Increasingly my manners decayed. I began to stuff more and more into my mouth, finally eschewing silverware to eat with my hands. By that time my dismayed guest had left, disturbed by my unexpected behavior.
I continued to gorge myself, eating as much of the spaghetti and bread as I possibly could, and downing the wine directly from the bottle. When I couldn’t possibly stuff any more down, I began to fill my pockets with the remains of the spaghetti, took the butter in a handful and filled my breast pocket with it, and poured the last of the wine inside my shirt. My face and hair and clothing were smeared with food, and my cheeks were bulging. I took one last look at the audience and left the empty table… American Foreign Policy.
