Space Description
Kevin Beasley’s A View of Landscape is an installation piece that immerses the viewer into an experience within a space. I believe that people are supposed to experience the space in a more conscious and subdued way, rather than sitting and chit chatting. In this space, one can meditate on the sounds they are submerged in, one can fall asleep, one can sit on the benches and feel the vibrations, they can even sit with their legs up to elicit a sort of floating sensation. The feeling and dimness of the room is a bit foreboding. Paired with peculiar and eerie sounds, the viewer becomes engrossed with this almost enigmatic environment. There are skylights with curtains pulled down over them, filtering the light through a translucent film that plays into the ghostly atmosphere.
Persona Development
Experience Vs.
Talking about the experience
Kevin Beasley @ The Whitney
SHe who Experiences
I like being in the moment. I tune out voices and go to another place. I see myself as an artist in the most literal sense. Inspiration is derived from the world around me, I try to experience moments in multiple ways. I pay attention to the world and my reaction, as well as watching someone else’s reaction to the same moment.
I wake up to cool morning air streaming into my room from the open window. I sit and stare, mind is blank. I get up, brush my teeth, get dressed, and walk out the unlocked door. I do not wear earphones when I walk, I like to listen to the city. I look at the people on the street, most are wound up in the world they have spun for themselves. Everyone seems to be caught up in the destination. One boy walks with his head tilted down, headphones ablaze, and eyes glazed over. An older woman stops me in my tracks and asks me the time, when I tell her, her smile reaches her eyes, she says thank you and walks away. I tilt my head to the side as I watch her waddle on down the street. Strolling on, my shoes meander off the smooth pavement and onto irregular pavers. I walk a bit further, staring into space. I arrive under the cantilevered entrance of the Whitney. I enter the building and go up the elevator. I walk into the Kevin Beasley exhibit on the top floor. I sit down on a bench in the eerie room, close my eyes, and place my palms face down on my perch. Vibrations stream up my fingertips, the ambiguous yet elusive heartbeat of a non-living machine becomes louder and louder in my head, as I drift away from the four walls defining this space. The haunting echoes produced from the cotton gin set a tone for my inner projection. I drift further and further back into my mind, an expanse of shadowy tranquility that comforts me like no other. I sit in the dark. Aware of the tremors being produced from my seat and the purr of a metal mechanism. The sounds roll around my head, I crack my eyes open. The room pushes back into consciousness, an illusion defines the space. This body, I remark, intuitively sways with the sounds, I close these eyes.
This mind goes blank.
Someone plops down beside me. My eyes crack open & I reenter the space. I have no notion as to how much time has passed. I feel a bit out of it but turn my head out of curiosity. We lock eyes.
“This is quite something isn’t it?”, says the girl. She prattles on about details of the exhibit. I can hardly listen or follow what she is saying. I am watching her lips move, and hear the tone of her voice over the mechanical hum. “What do you think?” she says.
“I think you think too much,” I reply, I show a genuine smile to sugar-coat my reaction. I am objective and that comment was not intended to be callous, some people are simply too reactive. I return to my moment, eyes closing once again.
SHe Who Talks about Experience
I am walking down the street, hands in pockets, dragging my feet a bit against the smooth pavement. What to do, what to do? I look up and follow the reflection that moves in and out from storefront to storefront as I stroll by. Coming to an intersection, I look for cars but my eyes rest on four large flowers pasted on the side of a prominent building. I meander towards the building. Ah, it is The Whitney. I think a museum would be a good way to spend the day. I push through the revolving doors and enter a large space. I walk to the ticket counter, purchase a ticket, and present it to those in charge. I shuffle past the workers and squeeze into a crowded elevator. We stop at floor five, everyone gets off, I decide to stay on, I click floor eight. I get off at the top floor, enter the exhibit, read about Kevin Beasley, look at the landscapes and cotton gin, and head towards the black curtains that beckon. I step into a space with a monotone color pallet, illuminated by fogged skylights, and a few objects dotting the ground within. I sit down beside a girl who is perched on a bench, still as can be, eyes closed, and palms face down on the seat. I try to mimic her position, but after a minute, I get bored. The girl rotates her head and we lock eyes. I cannot help the words that tumble from my mouth, “this is quite something, isn’t it? Did you know that the sounds are coming from the mics that are pressed up to the cotton gin? It is interesting how the various sounds fluctuate in pitch, it feels as if this room is completely subjective to the viewer and the experience they want to elicit for themselves!” We hold eye contact for a moment longer, I ask her, “what do you think?”
She tilts her head ever so slightly, smiles a bit and says, “I think that you think too much.” She then turns her head back to the front, closes her eyes, and does not move again. I feel oddly unnerved.