I FIRST HEARD OF MICHAEL CLARK in the late 1980s, when I bought the Fall’s sound track to his performance I Am Curious, Orange. Through the rock press, I learned of his work with Wire and Leigh Bowery, and through those associations and a handful of still images, I developed a vague conception of something punk, English, and gay. Michael Clark became an imaginary pop idol for an isolated, sexually repressed Anglophile.

The first time I actually saw Clark perform was when his company came to Lincoln Center in New York this past June. Over the intervening twenty years, I had developed a “fine” art practice rooted in a pop/punk cultural experience—like Clark’s? In retrospect, my interest in things like Minimalism and structuralist film were often at odds with my interest in things like the Ramones and politics, and the balance struck has veered back and forth. Would my imaginary pop idol offer

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