Who will tell the delicious story of food in art, from the lavish feasts that the Renaissance considered tantamount to masterpieces, to the Futurists’ wacky versions of same, to Arcimboldos produce-aisle portrait busts, to Arte Poveras kitchen antics (Giovanni Anselmos head of lettuce wilting between two granite blocks, Mario Merzs spreads of fruits and veggies), to Karen Finley rolling around in chocolate, to Zhang Huan strutting about with slabs of deli meat strapped to his body?

And last night Chinese artist Song Dong added a brand-new chapter with his performance piece Penjing at PaceWildensteins 25th Street gallery. The air in the cavernous space was thick with the mingled heady odors of chocolate and roast pork as an audience assembled for a lecture, and then a performance, by Song. As everyone who shuffled into the folding chairs filling the space knew, however, the real performer would be not Song but themselves, as they would soon be unleashed to gorge upon Song’s art — a series of installations consisting of foodstuffs arranged on long, shallow shelves underneath lines of Chinese text on the wall, the foodstuffs bearing an uncanny resemblance to traditional Chinese landscape paintings. One was made of stacks of sliced prosciutto and bread, one of mounds of golden-brown roasted pork, and the third of teetering towers of chocolates. Each had stalks of broccoli sprouting out here and there, providing the illusion of trees.

But first came a discussion of Song’s work, for which he shared the stage with Sarah Suzuki, assistant curator of prints and illustrated books at the Museum of Modern Art, while the audience braced itself to ignore the odors wafting about, and growing stronger by the minute. Just two days ago, Song opened an exhibition at MoMA — his first New York museum show, co-curated by Suzuki — comprising a vast assemblage of the contents of his mother’s apartment, which he turned into art shortly after his father died in 2002.

Song spoke about how the project was intended to help his mother, who passed away last year, emerge from overwhelming grief following her husband’s death. (The installation concerns the Chinese notion of “waste not,” which obsessed Song’s mother. And while the concept seems absurd — when would a collection of bottle caps, for instance, be anything but waste? — it has to be said that she had the last word on it when it was first shown in 2005. “See, Song Dong,” she said then, “what I say becomes reality — everything is useful.” In this case, as art.)

An hour into the talk, the crowd started getting fidgety. Stomachs all but growled audibly. A few people whose seats put them tantalizingly close to the stack of chocolates discreetly nabbed a few before Song could finish explaining things. But before letting his audience loose on his art, Song explained that he envisioned it as an appetizer (prosciutto), a main course (pork), and a dessert. He then issued a few strongly worded warnings: “The roasted pork is hard to eat, but good. The chocolate is good, but rich! Don’t overeat!”

Winding toward the end of his talk, he launched into a discourse concerning the recession-friendliness of his project. “As we all know, we are in a financial crisis,” Song stated gravely through his translator. “It’s hard to sell artwork. But if you just eat a piece of chocolate, you become a collector of my work.”

And no sooner had he made this proclamation than his collectors set themselves to the task of greedily acquiring his art, piling plates with stacks of hastily assembled prosciutto sandwiches, sawing away with knives at the mounds of pork, and avidly popping chocolates into their mouths. Dashing around the gallery with camera in hand, trying to keep up with them, was Yin Xiuzhen, Song’s wife and an artist in her own right. The couple often documents each other’s work, and in between snapping photographs of the action, she stole some nibbles of pork. “It’s very fresh,” she quipped approvingly.

MoMA curator Barbara London, who is responsible for Song’s current show there, was on hand, as were other curators, including the International Center for Photographys Christopher Phillips. Writer Barbara Pollack, who is working on a book about Chinese art, was there, as were scads of other Chinese art aficionados, including downtown dealer Ethan Cohen, who, between bites, raved that Song’s project represents “the essence of Chinese art — painting and food. You see something beautiful and then you experience the satisfaction of eating — it’s a total aesthetic experience!”

Cohen was also moved to recall several art-and-food-related moments in his own gallery, including showing Zhang Hong-Tus scholar’s table made of meat, and a benefit for the Asia Society, which he referred to as an “Orphic Feast,” where chef du jour Daniel Boulud contributed “food art.” “It was a whole exhibition of art made out of food,” Cohen reminisced. “And we ate it!”

Perhaps the current recession really has brought back the age-old figure of the starving artist, for the evening quickly devolved into a sort of freeloader’s paradise, with gallery-goers gorging themselves on Song’s victuals, until little remained on the shelves that once held these delicately arranged landscapes but a few stray stalks of broccoli — felled trees! — and the odd slice of bread.

As I exited onto 25th Street, a pack of sportily attired 20-somethings were making their way in, one of them announcing to the others gleefully, “Hey, I heard there are sandwiches here!” This particular group of collectors-come-lately would be disappointed, however. By Song’s standards, the show was sold out. 

Sarah Douglas is Senior Correspondent for ARTINFO, Art+Auction, and Modern Painters.