I was familiar with Kopf's work, in particular the contusions and dislocations of the early period, and the so-called ectomies of the middle period. At the millennium festival, I attended his Exit Wound Scenario and watched with fascination as the bullets ripped through him, but in the end I thought the ballistic image rather pedestrian. True, he was turning his insides out in the name of art, and I applauded him for that, but for all the blood and guts, and all the removed organs, I felt he was only showing us the pieces and parts—until now, until Intersection.

Sitting in the grandstand, I consider the idea of artist as martyr, but I dismiss this notion once Kopf takes his place in the avenue. I follow Kopf's defiant glare to the truck idling down the block. There is nothing of the martyr in Kopf, I thought, there is everything of the provocateur. See how he scowls at us. See how he mirrors our cool contempt. Kopf has moved into his late period and now he will show us something, I thought, watching the truck shift into gear. Now we will see what Kopf is made of, I thought, leaning forward, watching Kopf.