by Molly Kincaid
There is a nearly nude man named Andy Coppola standing shamelessly on a platform and being smeared with plaster by his assistant. After he is cast completely, onlookers are invited to dip brushes in pots of paint set around him and decorate him as they wish. Once fully painted in a riot of hues and caked in the now-dry plaster, Andy moves for the first time in two hours, crackling the plaster shell and walking away, leaving a trail of shards and a circle of tickled faces.
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