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Only in a pathologist's nightmare might you see a human-sized virus with infectious tentacles ready to strike. The nightmare may not be real, but the virus is ... well, almost. It's the kuso virus, otherwise known as Taiwanese performance artist Yeh Yi-li, who mutates into the virus when she dons her orange nylon costume. In her Kuso Spring Flower series (2004), Yeh moves assuredly through crowds in Taipei and Seoul as her tentacles wag and bob, occasionally spiking or 'infecting' passers-by.
When we meet, it's hard to imagine the 33-year-old - dressed in her Sunday best - as a live virus. 'It's a strong virus under a cute and harmless disguise,' Yeh says. 'So this creates trust while I stand in a facade. I'm a paradox.' It's part of a scheme to lower your defences, making it easier for an effective kuso attack, she says.
Of the three cities she has performed in, Yeh has the fondest memories of Seoul: the people reacted with screams or backward leaps. But what is a kuso virus? The term literally means 'damn', and originates from Japanese cartoons. But kuso has evolved to mean lack of logic and defiance against conventions.
Yeh created Kuso Orange Flower 1 (2004) in her studio. In this first piece, she moves as her grandfather might, practising tai chi in the park. A few seconds later, she is seen shooting out infectious digital flowers and rainbows from her palms.
In her second work, Kuso Orange Flower 2 (2004), Yeh takes us on a bamboo raft in the middle of a lake. As the camera pans counter-clockwise, everything turns black and white. Why get rid of the colours? She wanted to show that no amount of magic or sorcery can keep people from becoming infected by reality.
And that reality is? 'This is complicated,' Yeh says. 'What I'm trying to infect in people is my current state, my various emotions.'
In later pieces of the Kuso Orange Flower series, the mood becomes more aggressive. The gestures transform into a wild spinning dance, before she slows down in Kuso Orange Flower 5 (2004), the final and, perhaps, most touching piece. Yeh faces us across a dining table, as four friends pay her no attention. She sits motionless and devoid of expression as the tentacles of her body thrust, jerk and twist like injured worms.
Suddenly, the window behind her turns dark. It starts to rain heavy teardrops until her friends become watercolour figures, eventually rinsed away by the downpour. Now, Yeh's tentacles hang limp, sagging from exhaustion.
When it's over, I tell her I feel as if someone has just died. 'Actually, it's not about death,' she says. 'I'm trying to express that any given situation can suddenly terminate or disappear, in just a second.
'Whatever you think is permanent can change, from black to white. Just like that.'
