Kusama Infinity Room -- Dallas Museum Exhibit (2017)

Kusama Infinity Room -- Reflections on Immersion Art

(Dallas) Yayoi Kusama’s mirrored room gives the appearance that spotted pumpkins go on forever, in what’s known as an “infinity mirror box.” A small, 12X15X12 foot box at the Dallas Museum of Art contains 62 plastic pumpkins, bright, yellow-orange, and highlighted by black polka-dots.

Surrounded by 45 mirrors (55% on the interior ceiling of the box) a visitor has but 45 seconds to go inside and look at the flowing fields of pumpkins stretching out endlessly into a limitless horizon. Inside the room was stuffy, constricted, and we were shuffled in, and out rapidly—making me feel like a carnival barker hoodwinked me to hurry inside and see the fat lady or the house of horrors.

I wondered if Kusama’s series of infinity rooms are each reflections of her complex mind, or rather small slot machines for paying customers to move through like coins in a casino. A similar exhibit at the Broad Museum in Los Angeles sold 50,000 tickets in less than an hour.

Seeing a photograph doesn’t give the illusion credit; three-dimensionality and the infinitude of the box cannot be captured in a photograph, and weren’t meant to be. The black/orange contrasted well with the polka-dotted pumpkin patch theme; but I didn’t have enough time to think about any deeper meanings.

After taking 20% of the allotted visitation for a smartphone selfie, I could not study the size of the mirrored squares, nor could I look closely at the pumpkins. The infinity effect draws your eyes to how many rows of gourds spread out from your vantage point, away from a closer inspection of each piece of plastic art, or the design of the room. Maybe that is the intention of the artist.

Kusama’s fame (and fortune) make each installment in her series an event. One visits the room in pairs, so I went at the invitation of an art student very close to me. 

The experience as a whole takes longer than 45-seconds, but even the ticketing, reading, waiting in line, and discussion afterward lasts no longer than 30-minutes. We both expressed appreciation for the event, but I didn’t connect with “speed art” the way many do; instead, my taste is more traditional. I enjoy slowly meandering through an exhibit looking at the artist’s nuances, even to the point of envisioning how the art is designed and constructed. I enjoy art like a nice meal, or a fine wine, noting all its flavor, bouquet, and body. Nevertheless, each artist’s intent must be appreciated even if it doesn’t appeal to my own preferences, as is the case with my short immersion into Kusama’s infinity room.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Endless Summer: no one wants to read about endings...

Who Writes about Winter:

My Thoughts on the Close of Summer

Endings are hard. They’re even harder to write about. Discussing writing with my young journalist daughter this week, I told her that the hardest thing about writing for her paper is you have to write something that the reader will stay with, that’s why the lead is so important. But you can’t know what interests the reader; you have to write about what’s interesting.

That’s why endings are frequently the topic of discussion, but rarely enough to hold the reader’s attention in this fast-paced media environment. The writer only gets a few seconds nowadays, either grab them or lose them. Closing a chapter, or the end of an era usually holds significance to those whom were there. For me thinking about a high-school buddy who died too early, or the end of a season is interesting, but not to one who believes the rest of their life is like a long stretch of road melting into an orange horizon.

Often the road takes a sudden turn, or the tires go flat. Until you’ve been caught by circumstance without a Plan B, a startling conclusion to best laid plans is not a realistic alternative. When you’re young, it always happens to the other dude. I graduated from college almost thirty years ago, but at the time it seemed the fun would last forever.

And so here we are at the end of another summer. Summer always offers mystery and adventure, warm weather, warmer memories, time to explore and go through the schedule on a relaxed pace. All the years of summer vacation affect the nostalgic way we view the balmy months of June, July, and August. The unique bookend holidays at each side of summer accent its special place in the cultural calendar, and of course I previously wrote about the special holiday in the middle (see July 4, 2016—e pluribus unum).

Looking back today, on Labor Day, my regrets about this summer do exist on a personal level: I now know that there is no “endless summer” and at the end of the road I often regret that I didn’t pack more into the opportunity. I’m happy that the rest of the family enjoyed some adventures and vacation, but my summer involved mostly work and some back pain. OK, no one wants to read about that, but a path without obstacles has no destination.

So the universal thoughts of this season turn to the weather, food, books, travels, smells, and the long evenings with friends and companions bleeding the last bit of light out of a long, wonderful day. You remember those days? We look back on summer for its freedom, the whimsy of celebrations, the adventure of the journey, but most of all for the warmth and fullness of being alive. 

Spring is glorious for how we wait for its colorful eruption, the resurrection from the dead. Spring is the morning of the year. Fall is self-absorbed, organized, and determined to achieve what we've planned. Fall is less about fun, and more about keeping score. Winter is the dull hibernation, the killing of one year and the re-birth of another. Winter is the end. Not much creative writing about winter. ##

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Finally, let me recommend some brilliant writing about this summer which inspired this blog post:

Thank you, Bob Greene for saying it with such class, may my thoughts merely echo yours…

He said so eloquently that the real gift of summer is that there will be another one next year!

http://www.wsj.com/articles/summers-greatest-gift-is-that-next-year-there-will-be-another-1472769683