Infinity rooms at the Tate Modern Review

Not Just Another Trip to Tate Modern: A Whimsical Dive into Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Rooms

Ah, Tate Modern! Where even the echoes of footsteps whisper modern art. Enter the realm of Yayoi Kusama, a Japanese visionary who paints not just on canvas but on the very fabric of reality, turning her visual hallucinations into a cosmic dance of lights and shadows. But alas, my experience? I seem to be curiously immune, though perhaps the presence of a wide-eyed child or a penchant for selfies might’ve tickled my fancy differently.

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Now, brace yourselves for an adventure beyond the ordinary. Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Rooms—her mesmerizing year-long spectacle—is the talk of the town, so much so that tickets are as scarce as sunny days in London. Imagine this: queuing up, shelling out £10, all for a fleeting two-minute waltz through the corridors of Kusama’s universe. It’s hardly enough to explore, let alone get lost, which, ironically, is the whole point of these disorienting, mirrored labyrinths.

Generous by current standards, Tate Modern allows you a whole 30 seconds in some venues before nudging you out. But hey, plenty of time for a selfie, right? In an age where Instagram reigns supreme, these installations, with their intricate play of perception and light, seem tailor-made for social media glory. Yet, there’s something almost comical about how swiftly the profound is reduced to hashtags and filters.

Kusama, propelled by an inner world teeming with relentless visions, crafts these experiences from a lifetime of seeing what others cannot. Stepping into her “Chandelier of Grief,” I’m struck not by an overwhelming sense of the infinite but rather by an intricate clockwork universe, where light and crystal conspire to cast fleeting rainbows. Mirrors upon mirrors create a dizzying effect of endless rotations, yet the sensation remains strangely grounded—more mechanical than mystical.

Then there’s the grander spectacle: the walk-through “Infinity Mirrored Room – Filled with the Brilliance of Life.” Here, tiny lights flicker and fade like stars in a slow dance of the cosmos—or, as my skeptical mind notes, like those budget fairy lights in my garden that never quite work as intended. The scene is less celestial and more reminiscent of an industrial night landscape, or perhaps a sci-fi battlefield sans the noise and fury.

These are not merely art installations; they are experiences meant to bewilder, to pull you out of the mundane. Yet, somehow, I remain untouched. Would the magic spark if I brought a tiny companion whose imagination could transform mere reflections into wonders? Or maybe the anticipation, the long waits, and the hype would heighten the allure?

Aside from the light shows, there’s also an array of Kusama’s portrait photographs, snapshots from her performances—each oscillating between sexy and silly, earnest and utterly ridiculous. There’s even a vintage film showcasing a younger Kusama, draped in red boots and surrounded by her quirky sculptures, blending surrealism with a dash of coy provocation.

So, how long you can bask in this carnival of lights, mirrors, and the occasional peep into Kusama’s dotted universe is anyone’s guess. One moment you’re stepping through the looking glass, the next, you’re being ushered out, perhaps a bit dizzied but definitely entertained—or, like me, just slightly bemused and ready to beam out before the real vertigo hits.