I, Walter LeFauve, am also a renowned performance artist, much in the manner of the gifted Mr. Koh. For example, I once had Tom Hanks wrap me in duct tape and lift me into the trunk of his car. He then blindfolded himself and drove down an especially potholed stretch of the Ventura Freeway. Afterward, Tom’s wife, Rita Wilson, poked my bruised and concussed body with a large fork and asked if I was “done.”
In 2001, I received a Ford Foundation grant, which I used to have Jennifer Aniston lock me in her kitchen pantry, call the police, and identify me as a stalker. When officers arrived, she told them that this wasn’t a performance piece, but I later informed the federal-court judge that her denial was a “central aspect” of the piece. While serving my two-year sentence in a Westchester prison, I asked another inmate to watch “Friends” reruns with me, but he refused, claiming that watching the show had prompted him to kill his entire family.
In another early effort, I asked Marion Cotillard to scream obscenities at me in French while I imitated her Oscar-winning performance as Édith Piaf. She then shoved me out of her third-story window, but this was unrelated to the piece, which I titled “Marion Cotillard Cannot Take Even the Most Loving and Constructive Criticism.”
A highlight of the piece that I performed at last year’s Venice Biennale was Julia Roberts, Sydney Sweeney, and Austin Butler spraying my naked body with I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!, placing Triscuits over my eyes, and scattering pimento rosettes across my groin. Then they chained me to a pillar in Piazza San Marco, where pigeons attacked me. All three actors won Golden Lion awards, which they agreed were better than Golden Globes but were still not Daytime Emmys. This piece was called “Like Sydney Sweeney Will Ever Win a Daytime Emmy.”
Another career peak occurred when Isabella Rossellini buried me beneath organic mulch in her Long Island garden and left me there over a long winter while she vacationed in Lake Como. By April, I had not only been offered a solo show at the Whitney but had lost the use of my right arm due to frostbite. Isabella completed the piece by composting the arm.
One of my most personal pieces involved the Fox News anchor Sean Hannity tying me to an office chair, shrieking that I was Antifa, and then sobbing that I was also his mother and he was sorry that he’d been such a disappointment. Judge Jeanine Pirro then asked if I had delivered her eight boxes of Chablis, but the ball gag prevented me from answering. Finally, Laura Ingraham accused me of being an illegal immigrant and wheeled me and my chair into the Fox lobby, where I was arrested and deported to Kayleigh McEnany’s office. This piece later aired on “Dateline,” after Kayleigh claimed that I’d stolen five of her Labubus and her favorite Hello Kitty coin purse with the swastika.
The piece for which I was awarded my first Turner Prize had Taylor Swift zipping me into a garment bag and inviting fans onstage during her Eras Tour to kick me, telling them that I was her ex-boyfriend Jake Gyllenhaal. Taylor later hugged me and told me that I’d inspired a song on her album “The Life of a Showgirl” called “Kick You Out of Bed.” When I asked Taylor if I could wrap myself in a shower curtain and attend her upcoming wedding, she said no—which led to my most recent piece, “People Think Taylor Is So Nice.” ♦
