Unlike many of the avant garde performers we poke fun at here, Bora Yoon seems to have a modicum of musical talent, a voice, and some ideas. (Although "music by carrot chopping" is probably an idea better left unexplored.) But all her skills are in service to a kind of spacey, esoteric, pretentious ambiance that seems, to me, hell to sit through.
There's an hour's worth below to test your tolerance.
In the theater, Ms. Samama, with a whistle in her mouth, removes her clothing and lies on the floor next to the room’s white brick wall. Stretching her legs up the wall and folding them into her belly, she travels in a continuous spiral along its perimeter. It’s painstaking work, and her labored breathing is audible through the whistle.