When Allie Hankins is around she’s going to undress something. ASHLEY CLARK
“This is my first attempt at incorporating the props,” says performance artist Allie Hankins.
“By props, do you mean the thing that’s rotating?” I ask.
She does. The sculpture in question, by Portland artist and poet Morgan Ritter, mimics the form-fitting/form-erasing dress Hankins wears for the first part of her show. It’s a reference to a popular visual illusion—two faces in silhouette that could also be the outline of a vase. Other props include a squeaky microphone stand (which does not yet squeak but will be made to squeak), something under a scarf Hankins is running around with, and a tall object referred to liberally as “the Fuckmachine.” It smells like dance in the Siren Theater, like shoes and work.
