A Letter to Charlotte Moorman

Art in America, June, 2000 by David Bourdon

Suddenly, more than a dozen plainclothesmen swooped down the aisles and leaped onto the stage, where they nabbed you. The audience began to boo the police, who thought it prudent to close the curtain. Paik poked his head out, scanned the audience, spotted me in a front row and implored me to come on stage and "explain." He must have imagined that I, at the time an assistant editor at Life magazine, could convince the police that you were not performing a lewd striptease, but a serious piece of classical music.

I hurried to the stage and was distressed to find you in tears in the clutches of two burly policemen. They apparently wanted to take you away in your half-naked state, because they ignored your pleas for your coat and cello. I wanted the audience to see what was going on, so, with a helper, I opened the curtain. This encouraged audience members, who refused to leave the theater, to noisily express their disapproval. For a while, the curtain repeatedly opened and closed, as opposing factions gained control of it. I found your coat and draped it over your shoulders. By now, the stage was jammed with reporters and photographers. The audience was booing and heckling, which prompted the cops to call for backup. Eight more carloads of police--in riot helmets--sped to the scene to maintain order. Finally, you and Paik were hauled away in a convoy of 16 police cars.

They took you to the 30th Street station house, where the two of you were photographed with I.D. numbers hanging from your necks. Paik was questioned extensively and released, but you were charged with "indecent exposure" and had to spend the night in jail. By the next morning, you were notorious, the tabloids having dubbed you "the topless cellist."

"The People v. Moorman," a performance piece you would have preferred to avoid, took place in New York Criminal Court. The judge was Milton Shalleck, a man in his early 60s whose vaunted cultivation and wit brought to mind the avuncular fogies in Andy Hardy films. Back in 1948, he had been appointed ambassador to the South Pacific Commission, overseeing the islands of Micronesia, Melanesia, Fiji and New Caledonia. "I've spent many years in the South Pacific," he declared, "I know about exposure."

During your four-day trial, several policemen took the stand to describe what they had seen of your breasts and nipples, under what conditions they had been visible and for how long. Your performance had obviously been a distasteful experience for them, one that offended their manly modesty. Then several journalistic "experts" in the arts testified on your behalf: Jack Kroll of Newsweek, John Gruen of New York Magazine, Carman Moore of the Village Voice, Clive Barnes of the New York Times and myself.

On May 9, 1967, Judge Shalleck found you guilty of indecent exposure. In a lengthy decision, he observed, "in no valued oil, in no statue or bust have I seen either visually described or portrayed, a picture of a nude or 'topless' cellist in the act of playing that instrument. I wonder if anyone has." He expressed doubts that Pablo Casals "would have become as great if he had performed nude from the waist down." The dominant theme of your performance, he concluded, was "lewd appeals to prurient interests." Although he convicted you, he suspended your sentence, saying you were "weak and immature."