When I walk slowly across the floor of the studio, I step with my ancestors. I step with outcastes, migrants and refugees. I step with artists, dancers and pilgrims.

My foot trembles, unaccustomed to this labor. It is painted, made up in the guise of a sculpture. I step into Tamil Man, into the vision of Malvina Hoffman, who put her self-proclaimed capacity to see and identify true racial types to work in her monumental commission of the Hall of the Races of Mankind at the Field Museum of Chicago in the 1930s. I step out of the museum, out of the studio and into a pose as a living sculpture.

On the banks of the river, I perform austerities. Trembling, I die and give birth to myself, every 29.97th of a second.