Review of Narcisco by Ali Assaf

October 15, 2023

Narcissus is old. His outfit is comic, oversized, theatric. He trembles as leans over the surface of the water, seeking his reflection in a black pool. Wirey arms support his thin frame.

The water that echoes his image fills steadily with rubbish. First, photos on printer paper drift downstream, and he ignores them. Or, more precisely, he doesn’t see them — there is no flicker of strain, no reaction at all. But the items accumulate, bottles following boxes following basketballs. The water ripples. The surface is eager to be broken, wavering in its truth.

Performance art often feels too absurd for my appreciation. As I watch a woman lick paint off the floor or a trio of youth jerk sporadically in a field, I am filled with frustration. I — an undying Kurt Vonnegut fan, a lover of Rene Magritte, an avid indie concert attender — don’t understand this piece? Impossible. My partner, always curious, will tug at my sleeve, beckoning me to enter the dark rooms the Boston MFA reserves for videos. Despite his best effort, my feet cling to the safe harbor of the Italian Renaissance exhibit. I stare at the Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino painting until he gives up.

But Narcisco resonates in a way other pieces don’t. I feel the pain in Narcissus’ tucked knees, the dirt lodged underneath his fingernails, the involuntary shaking of his head. I can’t tear my eyes away from the TV screen, joining Ali Assaf in his strain to decipher non-reality.

Last year, Which of the seven deadly sins do you identify with most? joined my line-up of conversation starters. One night, my friends and I, bored and drunk, tried to guess at each other’s answers. For them, the possibilities were diverse: we’d quibble over whether Alice’s hamartia was lust or envy, whether Sam was prone to gluttony or sloth. But when it was my turn, the consensus was instant. My deadly sin was pride.

And, there I am: hairy in the wrong places, wizened by sun spots and wrinkles. My eyes claw through the rubbish — childhood memorabilia, family photos, romantic trinkets — seeking refuge. Only when I see my flickering reflection do I relax.