Asymmetric haircut in place, she stalks her prey, the braying audience, with one eye on her agent.
The unholy lovechild of Karen Finley and Ulay, Suki, performing her one woman five hour immersive piece, ‘Meat’, prowls the space backed with scenography like a wrecked children’s tea party, as her noise music soundtrack gets into the vital organs of the assembled.
She tiptoes into a dance, becoming a whirling dervish. Screaming, tantrum eyed, she’s a post- post- post- punk goddess in gingham, spitting out home truths for the misfits amid the misfits. Grinning a rictus grin, she throws buckets of animal entrails into the crowd, and some land on a visibly delighted female critic. Others recoil, and the audience parts, cleaved in two.
Divisive, sullen, Suki is triumphant in provoking, invoking, poking at her own artistic practice. Dolls are decapitated, and she tentatively squats, skirts aloft, pissing freely onto their prone forms. ‘I’ve had a lovely time’, she coos to what is left of the venue. ‘Tea, anyone?’
‘This isn’t theatre’, sighs the weary, sixty-something arts correspondent from the quality newspaper. ‘So derivative’. He wipes offal from his bifocals.
Suki purrs in pleasure, curtsies, then departs the stage.