Ragnar Kjartansson's The Visitors at SFMoMA

Some weeks ago, I was at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMoMA) with friends. Among other things we stumbled into a video installation by Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson entitled "The Visitors". I was blown away. It is a large space with nine screens, showing views into eight different rooms in a house, plus the front porch. There is a musician in each room. They are playing a song together, but also apart, in their separate rooms. Each display has its own speaker. Walking around the space you hear the music changing as though you were moving through the house. From the center you hear all of the performers in balance.

Viewing it in its entirety is problematic. It is 64 minutes long, so unless you have planned this into your day, it is a challenge. When we first went in, we only caught the last few minutes. Later we came back and saw another portion (the video runs continuously in a loop.) I felt that I had to return another time to see it all the way through.

Last week I got my chance. I was in San Francisco for an appointment, so afterwards I went to SFMoMA. I asked at the ticket counter what the schedule was for The Visitors. It turned out that there was about 45 minutes before the loop was scheduled to restart. I wandered through exhibits until the next start-time, then returned to the installation.

I experienced The Visitors from the beginning, with all the screens blank, through to the end when they each return to darkness. It was spectacular. I am sure it is not for everyone, but for me it was magic. I felt an indescribable sense of peace after I left the room. I was just happy in a remarkably simple, inexplicable, unadorned way. 

The song that they are playing has a short lyric that is repeated in various ways throughout the "performance", mostly repeating the line, "Once again I fall into my feminine ways." Over time, the music is played on different instruments, usually rather softly but sometimes with a loud intensity. The lyrics are somewhat somber, but it isn't saddening - it is mesmerizing and compelling. I would say that none of the musicians are great singers, but their song and music feel heartfelt and genuine, made all the more so by our being invited into a seemingly intimate performance. There are also touching moments when one musician leaves their room, walking to another space to join another performer, expressing a connection physically that hints at the musical interaction, then returns to their own room and their own instruments.

 
Unfortunately, try as I might, it is one of those things that really can’t be described in words. Even if one were to view it online - there are versions on YouTube - you still wouldn’t be able to really get it. I took a brief video to try to capture at least a vague sense of being in the space: 

It is probably not everyone's cup of tea. But, if you want to see it, it is at SFMoMA through 11/13/24. They start the loop 15 minutes after the museum opens, repeating every 64 minutes throughout the day. The installation can be found on the sixth floor. Paid admission to the museum is required, but there is no additional ticket needed for The Visitors.

It is also possible that you might see it elsewhere; apparently it has been shown in various museums on and off for over a decade. However, I have not been able to find any kind of calendar indicating where the installation might be going in the future.

If you've seen it, or you go to see it, I'd love to hear what you thought.

[FYI, the man playing acoustic guitar in the bathtub is Ragnar Kjartansson.]
[FYI2, caution: the song that is performed can become quite an earworm.]
[FYI3, after The Visitors, I went down to the front lobby of the museum on the first floor, lay in a huge memory-foam bean-bag chair, and watched the giant display showing slowly moving graphics of oceanic things floating around. A lovely re-entry into the world before leaving the building.]

All the World's an Audience

Shakespeare famously wrote in As You Like It, "All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players..." So famously, in fact, that to quote it can often seem trite. All the world may well be a stage, but in As You Like It, Shakespeare makes no mention of the viewers of our performance.

I often wonder about an imaginary audience for my life. I wonder what my audience knows that I don't know. When watching a movie or play, we might see the protagonist about to make a blunder, or after making a mistake that they don't even realize, or looking under the bed when they really should have walked away. We, the audience, often know things that Shakespeare's players don't.

Sometimes we wince as we watch, because the awful scene that is unfolding wouldn't have happened if only the characters were aware of some hidden fact that the author has clued us into. Oh, if only she knew that he secretly loves her; if only the platoon knew that the seemingly peaceful field is a trap; if only the ensign wearing the red shirt knew that it is always the red shirt crewperson that dies a horrible death right after transporting down to the planet from the Starship Enterprise.

What does my audience know? If I could ask them, what would they tell me? What blunders am I making? What should I realize that I don't. What am I missing? What am I forgetting? What do I think is important, but is actually irrelevant? What critical detail did I miss?

Is my audience wincing as they watch me go through my life? Do they wish that they could reach through the screen, grab my collar and yell... something. Something vital. Something that would make my life right now so much better; something that could save me, or a friend, or a loved-one from a terrible future. Or, if not a terrible future, possibly just a disappointing one. When the play is over will my audience leave the theater thinking, "that Andrew character made some pretty bonehead mistakes", or perhaps, "what a pity, I expected so much more."

Lessons at the Crosswalk

I often find lessons in the Dhamma (better known to Americans as the Sanskrit word pronounced “Dharma”) while driving. The other day I found Dhamma as a pedestrian crossing the street.

Last week Richard Shankman, the leader of my meditation group, gave a talk on the Buddhist ideal of metta, usually translated as “Loving Kindness”. He said that it is his goal to always have an open heart; to never close off his heart to anyone.

The next day I was walking in downtown Oakland, CA, when I came to an intersection. The light was against me so I had to wait to cross. Just as the light changed and I stepped off the curb, a large van at the far side of the street attempted to make a right turn on red, but was stopped by oncoming traffic. This left the unusually long van blocking the crosswalk.

I felt annoyed that I was going to have to go around this obstacle. My first thought was “what a jerk.” But almost immediately I stopped myself. I thought, “I’ve done that.” I never try to end up blocking a crosswalk while driving, but sometimes it happens anyway, through error or misjudging the traffic conditions. As I was walking around the van, a trivial extra effort, I thought, "I don’t know anything about this driver." Perhaps they strive to always be as courteous as possible. Perhaps blocking the crosswalk this afternoon was something they virtually never do. Maybe they were sitting in the van feeling incredibly embarrassed at having screwed up and blocked my way.

I realized I had no way of knowing if the driver even owned that vehicle. Maybe they had just gotten it, or rented it, or had been directed to drive it by an employer. Maybe unfamiliarity with the van caused them to drive it poorly. 

Maybe they tried to make that right turn on red because they were in a genuine hurry for some reason. I was near the hospital district, so possibly the van was full of medicines or medical equipment needed quickly at a doctor’s office. Perhaps they had learned that a friend had been hurt and so they were rushing to get to the hospital to be with someone that needed them.

Or maybe the driver was a jerk. Maybe they did this all the time. Maybe they really didn’t care about pedestrians or other drivers. 

Either way, I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. So instead of feeling anger or annoyance, instead of judging this person, I opened my heart to them.

I am no saint and I'm certainly not a Buddha. I am a work in progress. I can only hope to be as I was that afternoon, opening my heart more often in more situations, and finding the Dhamma everywhere.