The artists say they create by demolishing objects and even killing animals. Destruction seems a negation of art, but they say it's creative destruction — "like when you burn a picture you create ashes," one explained.

But to justify slaughter of a flock of chickens, more pretentious words are demanded. Said one abortive chicken killer, Ralph Ortiz:

"Destructivist art gives our destructive instinct its essential expression while coming to terms with destruction's most primitive maladaptive aspects — aspects that ordinarily would prove to work for the destruction of the species rather than its survival."

After those words, which seem to mean emotional release for him, the American "artist" looked absurd when the law intervened to prevent the massacre (which, incidentally, was to have bloodied 10 elegantly tuxedoed men as an added attraction).

Ortiz came up with a lone canary but no, not that either, said the RSPCA inspector.

Could he let the bird out the window? No again, for it was a cold night.

The frustrated Ortiz settled for showing a film of a chicken-killing, but not before the coup de grace was administered.

Why not stomp a caterpillar, suggested an onlooker. "I'm not a caterpillar-killer," huffed the affronted artist.

His less ambitious colleagues have fared better. One broke a chair to smithereens. Another created a hole with an ordinary shovel, and promptly priced it at $350.

Ortiz did, however, help axe a piano apart.

While living inside the 2.5-foot-wide corridor, Diaz-Perera will do only the most essential actions of his quotidian life: sleep, eat, and personal hygiene. He will not communicate with anyone on the other side of the walls. While he will be able to observe the audience, Diaz-Perera will remain invisible to them. Until the close of the exhibition, Diaz-Perera will attempt to embrace the act of becoming a Ghost of himself, an absence, nothing.