Martin Harrison had a great idea for an avant garde play. Take seven men on stage and have them cut their balls off. The thing was, though, that Martin Harrison could do it: he had loyal followers who believed deeply in his works and in Art, and he could certainly muster seven willing men. People told Harrison that it would be better as a film, as there would be little chance of repeating the drama over and over; but Harrison was immobile on the issue: the message had to be strong and personal.

The play was on Broadway for a single night. The reviews were lukewarm: Harrison's work was unimaginative, too simple. But someone did after all film the event, and took the film to Paris, where it was applauded as a commentary on one generation's legacy to the next. Harrison's message was clear: we want our children dead.

Our children are made of machines.
Our children are made of machines.
We dread them in our dreams.
Our children are made of machines.

Harrison's next work consisted of public masturbation, by him, in front of a crowd of ten thousand people. He called it: Sterile. To say he was a pervert is to miss the point: he was creatively perverted, which, in the world of Art, is a plus.