For years, pictures of Yayoi Kusama’s iconic Repetitive Vision flooded my Instagram timeline with striking red polka dots and never–ending mirrored reflections. My understanding of the piece and the Mattress Factory museum existed only within the context of these images. It wasn’t until I went home over fall break that I finally took the initiative to check the iconic Pittsburgh museum off my bucket list. Hopping in the car with my twelve–year–old sister in tow, we made our way to the North Side, anticipating an abundance of artsy photo–ops.
The Mattress Factory is a contemporary art museum nestled in a quaint, hilly neighborhood in downtown Pittsburgh. Prior to my visit, I had expected a “typical” modern art museum look—much like the sleek facade of our Institute of Contemporary Art here on campus—with sharp angles, crisp air conditioning, and white walls against fluorescent lighting. This image fit with the avant–garde aesthetic of the Kusama pieces I’d seen, which I expected to fill the museum halls.
Instead, the museum consisted of three separate buildings—two of them being old, repurposed homes, and the other being a former mattress warehouse built in 1900. The steep stairs of the first house creaked and gave as we climbed to each floor, close enough to reach up and put a handprint on the ceiling. The musty smell of “old house” permeated throughout, and bits of yellowing paint, peeling wallpaper, dirty windows, and exposed insulation complimented Luke Stettner’s industrial State of the Sky exhibition.
I found myself reaching for my phone more than I’d like to admit as I made my way through the first two buildings, taking in pieces that hadn’t crossed my Instagram feed prior. Stettner’s photos of the evolution of the Pittsburgh skies in the height of steel production weren’t the flashy, eye–catching exhibits I expected from the Mattress Factory, but they drew me in. Against the backdrop of an unrenovated, aging house, it felt like being transported back in time—in a way that a modern white–walled building would have failed to communicate. My little sister eagerly took some pictures of steel mill photographs, excited to show her history teacher during their unit on our city’s history.
We then returned to the museum’s main building, having saved “best” for last. Gingerly, we made our way into the dark, obscure entrance of Kusama’s Infinity Dots Mirrored Room. My sister pushed open the door, and we were at once absorbed into an endless reflection of ourselves, surrounded by multicolored polka dots under glow–in–the–dark lighting. Our teeth and sneakers shone as we took in the site—the only two people in the room by a stroke of luck. Naturally, we had to take a mirror selfie or two.
Under the filter of an iPhone, the expansive, iridescent scene seemed to flatten; the picture couldn’t capture the magic of our three–dimensional, full sensory experience. In the absence of air conditioning, the room felt still and silent, encapsulating us in an entirely separate world and giving it an eerie feel in the darkness. I stared into the distance, trying to locate the last of the train of repeated mirrors, to no avail. The photos we took are a fun record of a day spent with my little sister, but they cannot capture the experience of existing within Kusama’s space.
Infinity Dots Mirrored Room connected to Repetitive Vision; after finding the disguised door handle, I stood back in the darkened room as my sister opened the door to reveal the second mirror piece. Light immediately poured in, opening a portal to a world of red dots against a stark white background adorned with posed female mannequins. We once again had the privilege of being the only two people in the installation. Like before, the air here was still and stuffy—it felt hot, almost humid.
Once again, seeing this piece in person was an entirely different experience from viewing it through an image. The Instagram photos I’d seen over the years had made the space seem larger, cleaner, and almost hostile in its modernness. But in person, the piece felt imperfect; I could feel its history in the weathering of the floor and the mannequins. I noted small smudges in spots on the mirror, miniscule scratches on the bodies of mannequins, and scuffs from shoes on the floor. And as we spoke, our voices echoed and reverberated throughout the room; it was an infinitely mirrored echo chamber. The experience was eerie, almost unnerving; the stale air and hidden door gave a feeling of complete enclosure. Again, we pulled out our phones, taking selfies in the reflections on the walls and the ceiling. My sister posed next to each mannequin and imitated the poses; I captured each on camera.
Looking back at my photos, I see that they feel one–dimensional without the full sensory immersion of viewing the installations live. Though I can remember the sound, smell, and feel of being in the space, I know that sharing a photo on my Instagram story won’t provide this visceral experience to others. If there’s one thing this visit reinforced, it’s that Instagram truly isn’t reality. Under the lens of the camera, Kusama’s infinity falls flat. This artwork was made to not only be seen, but felt.
