Mirrored rooms are full of tricks. I can't imagine what would happen if a pre-cog developmental walked into any of the Yayoi Kusama infinite rooms we've visited, those on permanent display at the Mattress Factory in Pittsburgh, and at GoMA in Brisbane, Australia. They'd be fucked for life.
Is it pop? Like some weird pre-annoying-nintendo-nastalgia pop that is all-of-a-sudden worthy of a moment of gestalt? Maybe a throwback to playing in the Hamburglar installation outside of all of those McDonalds as a kid? All of these dots. Frozen fashion figures from the 90s? Are we her guests? What the fuck is going on with these mirrors? I don't get it.
Is it a testament to our terrified over-analysis of the world that we might refer to a tepid children's playroom as a "Hamburglar installation"?
In any case, any piece of art that crosses the subtle boundary between "object" and "place" is worthy of over-analysis, and maybe even fear. Kusama's rooms are under complete vibe-control lockdown; as you timidly cross the threshold and the door swings shut behind you, you're suddenly the centerpiece of an echoing, infinite landscape populated by hovering lights and the hollow slap of air conditioning. It's just mirror trickery, well-placed patches of color, lighting, and crystal-still pools of water, of course, but the effect is undeniably shattering. Why is it that I keep seeing a pubescent boy masturbating in the corner of the room? Either that or a 78-year-old Japanese woman. These mirrors play tricks.
Just to be clear, I'm not over-stimulated. I'm not trypping out. That happened earlier in a different place. I'm not jaded, either. I'm just stupid and that's why the piece is so smart.
Kusama's practice is dominated by her lifelong struggle with obtrusive hallucinations, particularly of endless fields of dots, which she calls "infinity nets," and which she perpetually uses to obliterate everything figurative, including herself. Psychedelia aside, Kusama's Infinity Dots Mirrored Room, 1996, Soul Under the Moon, 2002 and Repetitive Vision, 1996 are aware of -- rather, designed for --their audience, although perhaps only to willfully transport them into Kusama's psychological landscape.
She's working with age-old binaries. Some rooms are dark. Others are bright. Most are absent of a figure (except you, the viewer (oh shit!)), while others posit polka-dotted female mannequins. In the case of the conjoining Infinity Dots Mirrored Room, and Repetitive Vision, the door from one to the next is hidden, it being possible that less than half of the visitors see the second, brighter room; in jest possibly, but nevertheless a subversive gesture.
I think that Kusama is one of those female artists who is not relying on a twee sensibility of fucking around with shit in her approach.
In complete sincerity, the world needs more strong female artists! I'm not saying this imperative as a man. Rather, I'm saying this as someone who deeply values art from women. There are some of you out there. Your creations are so good. I love what you do so much. You are my favorite artists in the world. I don't know how to empathize with making it, but you who reject relying on cliche weak female tendencies in your creation of things -- you are the ones I have the most respect for.