Sure, I'm Horny-but does that make it Art?

Last night my friend Kimberly and I, on the urging of a loopy art-school friend of ours,reluctantly went to the Guggenheim museum to take in some performance art. Now that rather justly maligned term is to me another way to refer to the act of conning someone into underwriting bad pretentious entertainment or one's excuse for inappropiate behavior that I wish I hadn't been too drunk to employ in College. But hey, what the hell, oftentimes it's good for a laugh. And yes, you artsy types, I get it, I get the metaphors and I even think there is often a need for your nuttiness and God bless ya, keep it up!
Anyway, last night's performance (beware: nudity on link)- Seedbed was part of a seven night series where each night the ahem, artist "reenacts and interprets seminal performance works from her peers dating from the 60s and '70s." Seven Easy Pieces is dedicated to Susan Sontag. Perfect.

I can't do it justice: (from the program) My aids are the visitors to the gallery-in my seclusion, I can have private images of them, talk to myself about them: my fantasies about them can excite me, enthuse me to sustain-to resume- my private sexual activity. [For six hours!]

My impressions? Well, going in wasn't anticipating much, then became curious, curious,heard her voice, couldn't make out what she was saying, got closer, could hear clearly, became intrigued, interested, interested, interested, compelled, then a bit bored, had a cigarette, thought there would be nothing else, nothing new, got closer, curious, piqued, focused, interested, interested. Finished only marginally satisfied and mostly wanting more.