Immersive Spaces
Note: After travel delays and writer’s block, I realize this is a few days late. Next week, should be back to the regular publishing schedule.
I have been stuck at the Kansas City International Airport for about seven hours as I am writing this. My flight to see my parents have been delayed in increments of an hour to two hours. I don't blame or even feel anger towards the staff working at the airline. Shit happens, and it is a major holiday weekend. For the most part, the plane we were supposed to take off on had some battery recharger that needed to be changed. Maybe it is from the lack of sleep or the fact that I have been stuck in what feels like purgatory, but I am deliriously giggly. Not in a happy sort of way, more like if I don't keep laughing, I could spiral into anger or despair. I am sitting on modular airport furniture and the floor while trying to find an outlet to charge my phone and find ways to cope with boredom and frustration. There are other visibly tired passengers—some with children that keep crying and people lament about their holiday plans change.
As the hours passed, I found myself trying to find a space to place myself far away from other angry travelers, pitch-piercing cries from tired children. What the physical, mental, and emotional, sensory experiences are brought up in these spaces. Since coming back to more public places after getting vaccinated, I have found that there is still this ominous sense of keeping normal when there are still cases of Covid on the rise. It also feels that there is this level of impatience and stress that never goes away. My mind wanders over to memories of being in spaces that convey serenity.
In early October, I took a day trip to the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in Kansas City, Missouri. Only a few blocks away from the Nelson-Atkins and across the Kansas City Institute of Art. I stumbled upon the museum a few weeks prior when I was wandering around the area, and I came across one of the Spider sculptures by the late Louise Bourgeois that stands in front of the museum.
I stepped into the installation Pulse Topology by Mexican-Canadian multi-media artist Rafael Lozano-Hemmer. The audience walks through this curtain into a room where 3,000 light bulbs dangle from the ceiling. All of the lights are hung at various lengths, creating peaks and valleys in the ceiling space. Participants can walk up to one of three light stations and put their hand to the light-activating photoplethysmography (PPG) technology along with a programmed algorithm that can detect a person's heartbeat. When someone puts their hand under the light meter, it activates the lights, and they begin to flicker to the beat of a person's heart, and the sound of the heartbeats is amplified over speakers. Three different heartbeats are set off when three participants are stationed, creating this rhythmic beat from organic sources.
Pulse Topology. Rafael Lozano-Hemmer. June 25, 2021–January 2, 2022, Charlotte Crosby Kemper Gallery,
Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art. Photo by Margaret Burke.
When I was inside, I was the only person in the said exhibit for a few minutes. If it wasn't during pandemic times, I could easily see the numbers of people in the space. Lozano-Hemmer's Pulse pieces are all about building connections between participants, creating a sense of community within the room. In this case, it was only me. The softly lit space, along with hearing my heartbeat and seeing the lights flicker to my heart, brought something else to me—a feeling of presence. At one point, I lay on the floor and stared up at the lights. It was relatively serene with it so quiet.
A few weeks later, I took a trip to the Crystal Bridges Museum of Art in Bentonville, Arkansas. I was surprised to find that one of Yayoi Kusama's Infinity Rooms was on permanent display. The room I entered was called Infinity Mirrored Room - My Heart Is Dancing in the Universe. When I first stepped into the space, I expected myself to take many photos and call it a day. Like millions of visitors before me who stepped into these mirrored spaces, I took pictures. What caught me by surprise was the feeling of serenity and even happiness. The darkened room with paper lamps softly changing colors mirrored that feel ever going. In most gallery spaces, I usually try to understand the pieces. It was almost bordering on being pretentious. I used to believe that art was severe and for the elite. As I have gotten older, I have become more aware of how my body feels in space and experience the pieces.
Infinity Mirrored Room - My Heart Is Dancing into the Universe. Yayoi Kusama. 2018. Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. Photo by Margaret Burke.
Maybe because of the pandemic, but being in a crowded space bothers me more so than ever before. An hour earlier, I was surrounded by other patrons. Sometimes I would leave a room to get away from others. When I arrived in the room, I was surprised at how small the space was, but it didn't feel like it. I felt calm in the quiet mirror room. I could have spent an hour easily but was only allowed a minute. I almost felt like a kid again. I was feeling a sense of security and warmth under the soft lights. When I exited out of the room, I felt giddy and rushed with joy. A rare feeling to have these days during a never-ending pandemic. While I was familiar with her work, I am embarrassed to say that I didn't know much about Kusama's work or her vision for her work. Kusama has been open about dealing with mental health and created to channel those emotions. There is a reason why her work still resonates. People need a place to breathe, to feel a little bit of joy. Yes, we also need places that also let us take some sick photos too. To remember how it felt to be there.
Stuck at the KC Airport. Nov. 25, 2021. Photo by Margaret Burke.
More Information on Installation Pieces:
Infinity Mirrored Room - My Heart Is Dancing into the Universe
