Lizzi Bougatsos in Dossier

Lizzi Bougatsos in Conversation
Written by Monica Uszerowicz, posted on November 29, 2012 at 6:00 am
All photos by Tony Cox
There are few people for whom it is safe to employ the cliché, “She needs no introduction.” Lizzi
Bougatsos—visual artist, Gang Gang Dance frontwoman, I.U.D. drummer and charmingly gentle
weirdo—is one of them. Back in 2008, when Aaron Bondaroffʼs show My Life in T-Shirts opened
at Terrence Kohʼs now defunct Asia Song Society, she was the most soft-spoken guest, but still
the one I was drawn to most. Gang Gang Dance have always employed the most viscerous
content of traditional music from India, West Africa and the Middle East in their own tracks, which
lends their live, inevitably danceable shows a complexity that is at first impressive, then
bewitching. And Lizzi, bashful and unassuming in person, still manages to stand out, as if she
were elevated by her own psychic prowess. Like the textured layers of G.G.D.ʼs soundscapes,
her visual art and movable, present persona are both real mosaics of color and aural magic.
Over e-mail, she was smart and the best kind of rambling—her willingness to share was open
and earnest and completely humble. The ways in which the realities of her life seem imbued with
ritualistic enchantment was the thread of our discussion; it led us to topics like stage makeup and
EEGs and laced joints.
Monica Uszerowicz: You attended classes at FIT in New York City, so you were exploring
creative endeavors as a young adult. But I like to ask people about their earlier moments making
art—can you tell me about when you started doing that kind of work in general, even as a child?
Lizzi Bougatsos: I donʼt have much recollection from when I was a child, but when I was 15 I
made a drawing of a plant that I turned very psychedelic. I got an award for that drawing and my
dad posed with me for the picture. That was a big moment. I was a professional dancer from a
very young age and joined the cheerleading squad because they needed a choreographer for the
dance routines at half-time, but after I made that plant drawing, even dance couldnʼt hold me
back. It was much more appealing to hang with the skaters, dirtbags and do pottery than to soak
my feet every night in Epsom salts [after] being on pointe shoes.
Another epic moment was when I got this long rubber tube out of the garbage. My friends and I
went dumpster-diving after seeing a punk show, probably Fugazi. I would bring this rubber tube
everywhere, and I made earth installations with it. That was sort of my venture into installation art,
or the moment I realized art was everything to me.
Yet another big moment, this time in performance art, was when I got an EEG exam. They glue
wires to your head to measure your heartbeat. My mom took me to the doctor after I passed out
smoking a laced joint at Notel Motel on Avenue A. She thought I had a heart disorder; I told her
she should smoke some marijuana. Thatʼs when I realized my mom was pretty cool, but she
didnʼt want me to go on the train back to the city with those wires on my head. She said I looked
like a terrorist with a bomb glued to my hip. So, I took out my Super 8 camera and made a movie
of me spinning. The heartbeat really went up then, and the doctorʼs making sense of me smoking
joints kinda, well, you know… That was that.
Monica: It is probably difficult to pinpoint, but when did you recognize the fact that being able to
create an imaginative world of your own was important to you? Did it happen before you started
making installations with the rubber tube?
Lizzi: I was Clara in the Nutcracker one year, maybe two—the lead role in the ballet. I was more
at home there on the stage, ironically, than anywhere I had been in my whole life. That imaginary
world treated me very well—dreaming into the lights, caked with makeup, smelling the burning
nylon and body odor of other dancers. Sometimes I would get lost in the stage lights and my
makeup would melt. I think thatʼs where I got the name “Dizzy Lizzi.” Being on that stage had a
profound effect on me. The other experience that did that for me was playing doctor, but prepubescence, and that game always got a little complicated.
Monica: I read somewhere that you actually donʼt always feel comfortable drawing people into
your own world, or that it trips you out. How do you feel about the process of making and then
sharing something, allowing it to be interpreted or understood by others?
Lizzi: I love sharing. Maybe in the past, I was a little too punk to want to be put into a box. The
flow of interpretation can be very interesting, although it can also be pigeon-holey. Being
categorized and compared to other singers is always kind of a mind fuck, I guess. I always got
the the weird ones, too, but back in the day they werenʼt always female singers. Usually itʼd be
Bjork; then in 2005, Kate Bush. I wondered why I never got Cindy Lauper. She wasnʼt alternative,
I guess. Now, Iʼm more open to interpretation. I guess that is the language of society. Caring
about all that stuff sort of takes too much creative energy. Iʼd rather put it into my art or my meals.
Monica: My introduction to your work was a tent you made for the James Fuentes Gallery in
2007. In an interview about the piece, you said you used the tent to house images of people you
didnʼt like, like Jessica Alba. It also contained found objects from your walks and the rest of your
life—a concept similar to the rubber tube you found in the dumpster, or the EEG you made the
subject of a short film. It seems like what you find, the environment youʼre in, all of it is
incorporated into your work, and much of it is random: events and objects that just happen. How
much is randomness or chaos a part of your work?
Lizzi: That show was called “Street Feather.” You are referring to the “Birdhouse for Humans,”
which is sort of a constant theme in my work. Itʼs not really about not liking Jessica Alba; itʼs just
the packaged person. For me, she is sort of a little too perfect; I guess I like to see some flaws. I
mean, she canʼt help it that she is so pretty. I also put David Copperfield in there because I had a
bad feeling about him, channeling my psychic abilities. It turned out that he actually committed a
very serious crime involving the rape of an intern he kept captive on an island a week later. No
one hears about that shit because he has good lawyers. But yes, itʼs this freedom I like to use in
my work—working with feelings and general intuition. My environment is always in my work. I
have installations all over my apartment, from color rainbows in nail polish to urns of ashes from
burnt equipment to my goddaughterʼs [Marika Ackerman] work. She and her mother, Rita
Ackerman, are probably the most showcased artists in my apartment. She is a great painter. She
will probably be the most celebrated woman painter of our time.
Monica: And all of these contents seem really surreal, even the nail polish. “Art” is often the
placement of something ordinary in a new context, but when you do it, itʼs very dreamlike. Iʼm
bringing this up because the media has so often described you as weird and psychedelic—but is
there a kind of “everyday ritual” at play in your work? The elevation of the ordinary into something
magical, perhaps…
Lizzi: That would be my dream, for sure. I have explored this everyday ritual in several
performances. Two come to mind, both with Rita Ackerman. One was in Paris, where we put all
our belongings on motorcycles (her perfume, my clothes). Everything got stolen. Harmony Korine
was in the audience and was heckling me, throwing chips or stones at me. It was very primal.
Rita was pissed about her Coco Chanel but Parisians are sort of that way, especially the punks.
One time in New York, we hired a Hungarian violin player Rita found in the subway to play in a
show we curated in the Meatpacking District. We made a diagram of rose petals on the floor, with
a golden staircase leading to a toilet bowl. To me, it represented the staircase to Heaven. I rode
out on a motorcycle and Rita bandaged me to a chair for a while. Then she led me to the
staircase. With the best silver, I took out chunks of meat and pearls and offered them to the
“Heaven.” I was also blindfolded, and the silver was sort of retarded. So over all, it was an act of
futility. I like to play with that, too. To this day, this performance was my greatest magic. We have
photos, but it was never documented on video.
Monica: I also want you to talk about your music. Can you tell me about I.U.D.? Did you start that
project to create an outlet that would allow you to express a different part of your imagination—as
opposed to what you were doing in Gang Gang Dance?
Lizzi: I.U.D. was formed when I was coming home from a tour from Japan. I was very inspired by
the drummers there; all the females had these intense drum projects, circles, bands. I just wanted
to drum and I realized on the plane that I wanted to drum with Sadie [Laska, the other half of
I.U.D.]. I heard she was back in town and she was playing drums in D.C. At the time, it did
embrace my imagination, because I didnʼt have to answer to four men to express myself with my
body. I just got to be sexy and play drums in very high heels. It was something I needed to do for
myself.
I.U.D. is planning on doing a project with Danny Perez on my birthday this year, but it is kind of
hush-hush because it is a big deal. I really want to change the name of the band, too. So, I.U.D.
will be retiring to something much more powerful. There will still be a lot of drums; I can guarantee
that.
Monica: When did Gang Gang Dance form? If you were to look back on Gang Gang Dance and
the way youʼve all progressed, what has changed? Has your process and connection to each
other stayed the same?
Lizzi: Gang Gang happened in 2002 when the gallerist and performance artist Pat Hearn passed
away. I was asked by Colin DeLand to sing her songs. I asked the boys in Gang Gang to play the
music. I became their singer after that.
Gang Gang has always been very survivalist. I mean, we do what we have to do to keep it
moving. That hasnʼt changed. The process and connection is very natural. People change and
get married, form lives. Brian [DeGraw] and me, we just keep making art. Brian is really a musical
genius. He is in that studio, making beats 24-7. He can play the piano like no other in this world. I
think we all just have a general distaste for the industry of music. The survivalist thing is about not
wanting to be controlled and staying true to our roots. I think this is a constant struggle for us.
Sometimes, I feel like I have to carry my whole clan or gang on my shoulders. I can say that Brian
probably feels this way, too.
I think my strength to stay in the game is weakening on that level, but I will never leave the stage.
I do see my influence in others. I am quite charmed by that now. Maybe people see their
influence in me. Itʼs very important to make your own situation out of anything. Never rip, yʼall!
Thatʼs a whole punk and situationist idea in its own. You know, search and rise from within. I donʼt
remember the actual quote; it has been 11 years going on 12 now since I been readinʼ those
books…