Maybe I’ll have an epiphany. I was hedging my bets, trying not to place an undue burden on Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Room — Aftermath of Obliteration in the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art. But somewhere underneath that “maybe” was the expectation. The idea that, against all odds, I would be surprised and that 45 seconds in a room full of twinkling lights and mirrored walls would part the clouds of my mind, and clarity would emerge. Earlier, while getting in line inside the gallery, I ran into a friend I hadn’t spoken to or seen in months. Her father had recently passed away. I embraced her tightly and held on for longer than is appropriate in polite society. Her sorrow exhaled into the atmosphere around our hug, or it’s possible I squeezed the breath clean out of her lungs. As the queue shuffled forward steadily, in a single file around the gallery’s perimeter, I offered her what I little I could. Our exchange imbued the exhibit with urgency — big (terrible) changes were afoot.
The exhibit comprises two separate installation pieces created by the unrivaled Kusama. Each ticketed one-hour session is limited to 75 guests. Before getting in line for my epiphany, I explored the second installation, Narcissus Garden. This has traveled widely in the United States and abroad. Kusama created the field of watermelon-sized, reflective ball-bearings for the 1966 Venice Biennale. It’s a testament either to her vision or the unchanging nature of humanity that the installation remains wholly relevant today, and even takes on new meaning with each location. In New York, the derelict surroundings of a structure ravaged by Hurricane Sandy, still in disrepair, contrasted spectacularly with the high sheen of the globes. In Las Vegas, observing endless selfies being taken in a pool of shiny large balls seemed almost too on-the-nose. Middle-aged couples posed unironically, smiling, angling their phones to capture the sea of silver instead of the white walls emblazoned with the words, “My idea was to bring out the unknown parts in people by reflecting the mirror of time with my mirror.” Millennials took pictures of each other, eerily intimate with their best side and most favorable angle, craning their heads low in order to capture their faces next to the balls. A soft breeze would’ve knocked them down into the installation. It’s hard to tell whether they’re in on the joke, or if they’re the punchline.
The number of ball-bearings was reduced in order to fit in the Bellagio Gallery, thus the Las Vegas installation presents only a fraction of the whole. Something we’re used to in this town, whose tourist center relies on façades culled from elsewhere. A city of lights, neon, and LED, illuminating the desert. This place, then, with its groundbreaking displays of light, is the perfect spot for Kusama’s Infinity Room. But grateful as I am for the Bellagio Gallery and its mission, I wish the exhibit could’ve happened in a different venue. A space more indicative of the true nature of Las Vegas, brought together by individual ambition and a desire to contribute something new. But even with certain strides forward, the Las Vegas art scene remains scattered, bereft of a beating heart that can pump blood to limbs tingling with sleep.
Before entering the Infinity Room, I decide not to photograph the experience, opting instead for a pure, undocumented moment. I don’t regret that decision, even though my memory is subpar, at best. (This essay, of course, serves as a means of documentation.) Once the door closes behind me, I immediately feel alone. Outside noises are audible but distant, and I recall a memory of being in the dark, solitary in my room as a child, adult conversation carrying on just beyond my door. The lights suspended all around me glow in a mango-hued constellation. The faint scent of peach drifts in the air, probably from a previous guest’s perfume. Perhaps I’m just craving fruit-salad. Determined not to waste my insight on a healthy dessert, I refocus and clear my mind. When staring straight ahead I’m faced with my gawking reflection, standing awkwardly. Still no epiphany. I turn to the right, and now my image is a footnote in a sprawling ocean of luminescence. It’s the end of time and everything has ceased to exist. I’m weightless. I search for my epiphany in every angle of the space and discover nothing but beauty. The lights go on endlessly, and their delicate mid-air dance is entrancing. The door opens; the experience is over. Even primed by my friend’s grief, I found no revelation in the dark, only the bloom of a splendid artistic landscape. And that is more than enough. Maybe there’s a realization somewhere in there after all. Maybe not.
Installations by Yayoi Kusama, through April 28, Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art, $15, bellagio.com