In 2017, I took a trip to Paris, where I greedily took in as much art as I could. In one of the cavernous chambers of the ornate Musée d’Orsay was the Vincent van Gogh exhibition, his framed works (“Starry Night Over the Rhône,” “Bedroom in Arles,” “The Church at Auvers,” a number of his self-portraits) set against a brazen sapphire background rather than the usual chaste white museum walls.
What does it mean to build intimacy with an artist — even one separated by over a century of history? And can an artist’s work be reimagined to give an audience in modern times an even more intimate contemporary relationship with the art?
These questions occurred to me as I visited the two competing immersive van Gogh exhibitions in the New York City borough of Manhattan: “Immersive Van Gogh” at Pier 36 on the East River and “Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience” at Skylight on Vesey. Unlike my emotional high at Musée d’Orsay, these shows left me feeling largely indifferent; in fact, the strongest reaction I had was an alarming sense of intrusion and a disingenuous connection with the artist and his work.
“Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience” (Source: New York Times)
I’ve had a poster of “Starry Night,” gifted to me by a college friend, since my undergraduate dorm days. It hangs framed in my bedroom today. At Musée d’Orsay, I stared at his restless skies and fields, stood for long stretches in front of his self-portraits, rooted in place by the depth of his gaze. And I cried — suddenly, violently. I rushed out. I had never before had such a fierce reaction to a painting, and I have never again since.
Immersive art installations — and especially immersive theater — trigger my sense of play and activate both the critic and artist in me. There’s a large difference between art conceived to be immersive, though, and art strong-armed into an immersive medium.
But first there was a beautiful translation of van Gogh: The entry ceiling of Pier 36, an imaginative 3D re-creation of “Starry Night” by the designer David Korins, featuring thousands of painted brushes, felt like a beautiful homage — an artist taking on another artist in a work that invites a new perspective, channeling the original work’s style and motifs without aiming to be an exact reproduction.
Recreation of “Bedroom in Arles” at the Van Gogh show. (Source: New York Times) And yet that just was an appetizer to the main show, a series of connected rooms where people lie and sit and stand watching a video of van Gogh’s works projected in all corners of the room, and that left me numb. And what got to me wasn’t the young women posing for selfies or the older tourists lounging as if at a beach or the restless children scurrying around and climbing on Korins’ large abstract monuments, their reflective surfaces catching all the sunflowers and stars — I’ve encountered much of the same in traditional museum exhibitions of van Gogh’s work.
It was the brevity of the paintings in the video sequence — how quickly they appeared and disappeared. And it was the animations — his mighty cypresses manifesting like apparitions from the mist so that the magic of the work is rendered literally. There’s no room for subtlety or implication here. The beauty of being swallowed by projections of van Gogh’s multicolored fields was subdued by the sloppiness of the translation. I stood off to one side to examine the projections and lost the resolute brushstrokes and tiny gradients of color in the fuzziness of the digitization. I quickly realized that for a good number of those in the audience, those details didn’t matter. The goal was to use the art as a backdrop for a kind of theatrical experience.
It was precisely this experience that made me uneasy. How do you make theater out of art that is so explicitly contained and individual to van Gogh’s perspective? Despite all the color and character in his work, it would be inaccurate to restyle his paintings as scenery on the quasi-stages that these exhibitions create for audiences to explore not as admirers but active participants. Visitors clicking pictures at Van Gogh exhibition. (Source: New York Times)
The van Gogh show at Vesey similarly used projections along with 3D deconstructions of his paintings, and I felt more at ease with these impressive life-size re-creations of works such as “Bedroom in Arles” in an exhibition that styled itself a “virtual museum.” But my eyes glossed over the canvas reproductions of the work, so inferior to the real thing: The colors were dull, the textures nonexistent, and the fibers of the canvas shone artificially in the exhibit light. Not the van Gogh works I remember, but at least here was the art, standing still and on its own, and without interruption. And here was the artist — a timeline of his life, blurbs about his career.
To try to introduce new depth and interactivity in the artist’s work is to imply that van Gogh’s originals — his brushstrokes, his swaying fields and torrents of blues or the bowing heads of his oleanders — didn’t breathe. No matter how many times I toured the chambers, I had the itching sense that it was dishonest to expand a 2 1/2-foot-by-3-foot painting to fit the horizons of a 75,000-square-foot space. The images are expanded and duplicated to create a repetitive panoramic. But there’s a reason for the size of the original work; what the painter wanted to obscure, what parts of the world we’re allowed to see and what we’re left to imagine. A painting hanging on a museum wall is a declarative statement, the artist saying, “Here’s a piece of a world of color, style and form that I’ve given you.”