When you go to the installation art room, Zee, they ask you to sign a waiver absolving FILE of any harm to come to you. This request is as disconcerting as the piece itself. For generations, critics have complained that art was no longer dangerous, that everything has been done, etc. etc. Kurt Hentschläger’s Zee comes as one unlikely possibility to fill the need of those disenchanted and negative about the art of our age. The perennial question: “Yeah, but it is it art?” does hang over the work—but then again, I’m only asking this because as a non-art critic I have no true compass for judging art outside of what I remember from the art history classes I took in college. Sure, Zee feels more like a carnival ride or a nightclub than an installation, but then again, how can you shock the public with art without going outside of the medium’s usual boundaries?
Ultimately, the nature of art doesn’t mean too much when your life is at stake. So you can imagine my hesitance when I was asked about the status of my health—and to put it in writing—before checking out Zee. Unlike the waivers shlock horror movie maker William Castle had his audiences sign (so that he might drum up free press), the good people at FILE come across as genuinely concerned about the audience—impressive for a free exhibit. They want you to know that your hypertension and heart issues might be a problem for you inside Zee. They want you to know that because of the massive amount of artificial smoke pumped into the room, asthmatics must beware. They also want you to know that if you have epilepsy the constant bombardment of pulsing strobe lights may trigger a fit. This last point was of particular importance to me. I’m not epileptic per se, but this self-diagnosis may only exist because I’ve never been to a neurologist. The only reason I have to ever consider myself in the slightest danger is a minor but life-long affliction triggered by quick movement around me, which occasionally results in the loss of some of my motor control; usually, this loss manifests itself by inhibiting my ability to speak or walk. This jitter happens for no more than five or ten seconds—but this is enough time to give pause to the two girls with the waivers explaining the protocol for entering and leaving Zee.
Eight people enter at a time. We were two. They told us to hurry into Zee when the door opened so the smoke would not escape. We were told to hold the rope and let it direct us around the installation, making very sure not to pass under or over the rope into non-designated areas. We were also told not to sit on the floor. They made eye contact and told me directly, “If you get sick, cover your eyes with your hands and yell for help.” Ok. Not reassuring, really, but it was nice to know someone was listening. Everyone was ready and we pushed ourselves through the opened door and into the icy meat locker billow of smoke.
As promised, the smoke was substantial enough to get thoroughly inside of you—it tasted sweet, but it made it very difficult to breathe normally. The guide reminded us to cover our noses and mouths with our shirts if we needed to. Then, an equally thick bass-heavy tone began to drone. Then came the lights. Words like pulsing and flashing don’t really express the sensation or the consuming effect of Zee’s intense level of light, color, and smoke. Your vision is fooled and your sense of direction is dropped into a near free-fall. If it weren’t for slowly walking or feeling the rope sliding through your fingers as you made your way around the room, you would think you were actually floating. It is difficult to explain Zee without devolving into metaphors about taking LSD or any other hallucinogens, but the interactivity of the thing is really not unlike a drug trip. I stared into the lights, struggling to peer through the smoke. I loved it. And any dangerous physical reaction? Nope. The monolithic shifting of luminescence didn’t trigger the slightest epileptic pang.
After a few minutes, you begin to wonder if the light show is all there is to the twelve minutes of Zee. But overcoming the fear of teeny-tiny petit mal seizure, another horror surfaced. What if someone grabs me? The smoke assures that you can’t really see the other seven people unless any of them are quite close to you. This apprehension was reminiscent of haunted houses in amusement parks: darkness, darkness, darkness, then BOO! and some animatronic Dracula, or a jerkoff in a gorilla suit pinches your forearm. So at this point, wondering what could possibly come of Zee in the remaining minutes had me seriously considering that I might get attacked. Maybe this was the cause for the waivers.
This new fear subsided, assuaged by the comforting and continual shifting of light and space. Maybe Zee would just continue unthreateningly, providing a nebulous earth-level planetarium.
Then someone grabbed me. Of course, my first reaction was that it was my partner, playing a joke. But, no! I couldn’t believe it.
There was a strike at my shin. Bodies I couldn’t see began to back into me on both sides. A loud thud! Smoke and more smoke. Art is scary! The guttural sound of someone having a seizure overtook the atmospheric soundtrack, and the victim thrashed about on the floor. We weren’t supposed to sit on the floor, I recalled.
One of the FILE girls called out. The soundtrack stopped. The lights ceased flashing. We were told to grab the rope and move to our left, returning through the amorphous smoke walls, back, back to the door we first entered.
Walking from the SESI building, we turned to see four or five police officers positioned on the plaza. The FILE girls were running in and out of both doors of the installation piece.
I don’t really know how Zee ends. Maybe it’s just more of the same: droning patterns of light and sound. Maybe there’s a singing frog or a huge Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man you have to shoot down to get to the next level. I’ll never know. Go and see for yourself—but don’t forget to let the FILE girls know if you have hypertension.
