These casual claims of performance are both homage to Abramović and a distortion of her work. As she often says, “In theatre, blood is ketchup; in performance it is real blood.” Abramović’s blood and sweat are very real. She carves deep, and you can feel that it hurts. But the Warrior Marina, the one who picks up a knife with no fear, and the Spiritual Marina who clears room in the brain for the knife to keep cutting, wouldn’t feel real without the presence of the Bullshit Artist. Reading her memoir is like watching someone hold a bottle of ketchup in a bloody hand.