Not to go negative, but this flurry of performance art does have a note of Woodstock 2, a whiff of karaoke, a tinge of nostalgia for an age whose irrecuperability is now beyond argument.  What about when performance artists shot themselves with guns, rubbed themselves with meat, rubbed themselves under the floorboards, or at least walked on walls? (Image: Trisha Brown at the Whitney, 1971).