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ST LUK + DANA KARWAS
BEANS is how we’re beginning to share the voice of Spill 180—an online publication for ideas, inquiry, and the kinds of dialogues that carry us forward. As founder of Spill 180, I'm thrilled to open this series with a conversation that feels both foundational and deeply personal. I sat down with artist Dana Karwas, whose upcoming exhibition playfully interrogates sensory perception, cosmic scales, and the fabric of space-time, and ST Luk, Project Director & Puzzle Creature at the Reversible Destiny Foundation, dedicated to the visionary practice of artists Shusaku Arakawa and Madeline Gins.
We met inside the Reversible Destiny Foundation Archives in New York City—a space I’ve gotten lost in many times, surrounded by Arakawa and Gins’s original artworks, ephemera, drawings, correspondences, and blueprints. The archive contains an expansive range of materials documenting the life, work, and evolving ideas of Arakawa and Gins, and remains an active site where their practice continues to unfold.
This conversation is particularly meaningful to me, as Dana and I have spent several years deeply immersed in Arakawa and Gins’s groundbreaking ideas through our research practice at the Yale Center for Collaborative Arts & Media, Ultra Space. From academic symposia to printed matter to site visits in Japan, our investigations have continued to circle persistent inevitable questions—alongside ST Luk, Momoyo Homma, and the Reversible Destiny Foundation at large. It felt essential to open this series with a dialogue that reflects the obsessive curiosity at the heart of our work—unpacking ideas around existential puzzles and the poetic possibilities of perception.
CHAITANYA: I’m trying to remember how we ended up looking at this image initially…a few years ago…I think you pulled it from a file for us, ST?
ST: I think so. You were here at the archives, and we were looking through the flat files. One of the first books in the top drawer was the Reversible Destiny Healing Fun House. And I believe the version we pulled out even had a whistle attached to the corner.
CHAITANYA: And this was a project that wasn’t realized—just sketched out, correct?
ST: This project was created shortly after Arakawa passed away. Initially, Madeline and the studio wanted to make a kind of tombstone for Arakawa. An earlier version was called Arakawa and Asclepius, referencing the Greek god of medicine and healing. The project evolved from there; it was originally planned to be located in Greece. Eventually, it became the Reversible Destiny Healing Fun House.
CHAITANYA: I really like the name they landed on. It's fascinating that they referenced Asclepius, the god of healing.
DANA: The name Reversible Destiny Healing Fun House is somewhere between a straightforward description and poetry. It really struck me when I saw the phrase SPACETIMEMASSENERGYWAVEHELLO. When I first encountered it as text, I was thrown by the density..what is this super long word? It was all written together as one continuous string. Were other parts of the Fun House labeled similarly, or was this specific treatment unique?
ST: I think SPACETIMEMASSENERGYWAVEHELLO was unique. It just sort of pops out of nowhere on one page as a wave hello, right in the middle of the sketches. It reminds me of Madeline's early poetry from What the President Will Say and Do.
DANA: If we were aliens landing from outer space and this image was our only frame of reference, how would you describe what's happening?
ST: The image shows two people waving at each other—one inside a house, one outside—with a translucent wall dividing them into two sections. It's unclear exactly what this boundary is or how opaque it might be. Could someone step through it? Underneath, there’s a crevice that mimics the perimeter, but it runs perpendicular to the wall. The drawing is labeled SPACETIMEMASSENERGYWAVEHELLO. On the next page, there's a note saying, "the crevice repeats the perimeter," meaning it's the same shape as the wall and the space below it.
DANA: There's a lot of psychology in just the wave itself—who’s waving at whom, and what's the response? They're waving across this boundary. Boundaries often represent perpendicular spaces. Think about driving over the Brooklyn Bridge—there's this psychological crossing, going over something that's moving in the opposite direction, like a flow of force. Or consider crossing a river or a chasm; the directionality feels significant psychologically. Even if this were drawn simply on the ground—two people waving rather than shaking hands—there’s something powerful in the timing and act of waving itself. It looks as if they could almost touch, but they're waving across the gap. After seeing this image, I thought about how a wave embodies distance, creating a specific connection between people. Growing up in the suburbs of St. Louis, there was only one road into and out of my street. We wouldn't really see neighbors outside, but it was common to wave to people passing by in cars. The wave happened at a greeting distance, never when someone was immediately next to you. There's something about the introduction of time through this gesture that really excites me.
ST: Yes, there's a mysterious connection happening between these two people on multiple levels—the gesture of the wave itself, but also questions like, what kind of wave is it? A sound wave? A wavelength of light? Another interesting thing is that the wall between them is actually shaped like a spine. Later in the text it says, "Each person has a spine guaranteed. Each person has an architectural body guaranteed," and there are diagrams reflecting this shape.
DANA: Wait, can you show me the spine?
CHAITANYA: Wow, so that boundary shape is based on the human body?
ST: Exactly. Here's how it's described: "Asked to locate her spine without feeling for it with her hands, a person will come up with a series of indefinite apprehensions—cloud-like areas of activation, despite knowing a spine to be a sinuous lineup of bone, solid vertebrae. Similarly, locating her architectural body, a person will have difficulty outside the context of procedural architecture. But within such an architectural work, she'll sense a cloud-like area of activations whose boundary equals the perimeter of the architectural surround in which she moves."
DANA: So it’s like an atmosphere emerging from the spine—cloud-like. That’s beautiful. It suggests something happening at a different scale inside our bodies. All I can picture when I think of most scientific diagrams of space-time is a basketball dropping onto a sheet—multiple basketballs floating, just abstractly. With SPACETIMEMASSENERGYWAVEHELLO, there's still a sense of mystery, but it somehow better conveys the idea of an additional dimension, even though on the surface it’s just two people waving.
ST: It's definitely a more embodied understanding of space-time. Arakawa’s earlier paintings often contain space-time diagrams too, like Minkowski's cone diagrams. It’s challenging to grasp exactly what those diagrams represent. Madeline is probably trying to push through that complexity by embodying space-time visually and physically. Dana, how does your upcoming work relate to these ideas?
DANA: My upcoming show revolves around a perpetually swinging pendulum equipped with a camera, almost like an eye. It moves over the iconic "El Gordo" image captured by the James Webb Space Telescope. The pendulum swings, and based on its momentum interacting with this cosmic image, new visions of the universe emerge—colorful interpretations rising from the page, each revealing space in a new way. Exploring this led me deeper into the challenge of understanding space-time and eventually brought me back to SPACETIMEMASSENERGYWAVEHELLO, which felt like the clearest way I could attempt to grasp such a complex concept. I started researching how light travels through space and discovered diagrams that mirrored our own histories of understanding space. The way Madeline Gins and Arakawa approached materiality kept coming to mind. I was particularly drawn to an ancient cosmological mirror at the Yale Art Gallery from the first century BCE. It’s small, dinner plate-sized, with patterns etched on it that, when illuminated, reflect a completely different image onto the wall. The mirror introduces mystery—a shift in perception that goes beyond what can be measured. Inspired by this ancient object and the SPACETIMEMASSENERGYWAVEHELLO sketch, I created my own mirror to explore these ideas of bending and shifting space.
ST: I love how this creates a dialogue across time—from the first century BCE to now.
DANA: It always reminded me of a funhouse mirror—a way to visualize how time bends. My goal was to create a portrait-scale mirror so visitors could see themselves. At first, I played with funhouse mirror effects—warping reflections like time distortions. But as I applied heat and energy, I started manipulating the plexiglass more intensely, bending and reshaping it by hand. That process gave it an articulated form—something pulling time through space and vice versa. When you look at yourself in it, you're seeing your reflection within a shifting perception of space-time.This mirror captures the wave as both object and reflection, bridging past, present, and future. When I interviewed astronauts, I asked them what space felt like. Many described the blackness of space as being like velvet, which fascinated me.
ST: You mentioned the velvet of space—can you say more about that?
DANA: Astronauts often describe the darkness of space in textural terms. That fascinates me. They consistently compare it to velvet—a visual and tactile phenomenon. It reminds me of materials like Anish Kapoor’s ultra-black paint, vantablack, which also appears in nature. Certain birds have vantablack feathers used during mating rituals. Under a microscope, the molecular structure of these materials is incredibly specific, absorbing light completely and creating that extreme darkness.
ST: Velvet has such a distinct feeling it evokes, too.
CHAITANYA: There's also David Lynch’s use of velvet—using velvet as a boundary or marker of a portal, like curtains.
ST: Arakawa has paintings from the '70s and '80s where he references the "texture of time," and that makes me think of the velvet of space.
DANA: Yes—the texture of time. Astrophysicist Priya Natarajan spoke about how astronomers measure space-time, and one thing that stood out to all the visual artists listening was how she described light moving in and around gravitational pockets. Astronomers track this movement by observing different colors of light. Galaxies moving toward us are blue or green, while galaxies moving away shift toward red—known as the red shift. I find it fascinating, especially from a color perspective.
CHAITANYA: That reminds me—I’m looking at the SPACETIMEMASSENERGYWAVEHELLO image again, and it seems Madeline also references that color spectrum. It’s divided into red and blue.
DANA: Exactly, and those colors represent directionality. Red signifies moving away, blue toward you. My other works in the exhibition, which echo the iconic James Webb Telescope findings, are titled "Come Towards Me" or "Move Away from Me." I see them almost as hypnotic beings—not Gods exactly, but something possibly sentient, or at least evoking that sensation.
CHAITANYA: Madeline is playing off Arakawa's earlier paintings, but in a more accessible way. Dana, your work also emphasizes that—making difficult concepts of space, time, mass, and energy visceral. You're both bringing the coded colors and sensations forward, and I’m interested in that dialogue.
DANA: That's why I think Arakawa and Gins’ work is so important. I wish all their projects had been built, because standing in their spaces or touching their surfaces offers invaluable sensory feedback that deepens your understanding of the concepts they explore. It's really about touch and materiality. We need that now more than ever because everything is so ephemeral, digital, and detached. When Arakawa and Gins talk about "tactile landing sites," I finally understood—they’re referencing the memory of touch, the enduring sensations their spaces provoke. It’s an incredible approach to making complex ideas accessible.
CHAITANYA: Tactile space-time.
“That's why I think Arakawa and Gins’ work is so important...it's really about touch and materiality. We need that now more than ever because everything is so ephemeral, digital, and detached.” - DANA KARWAS
“Mirrors can function as control mechanisms, reflecting our urge to manage our bodies. But they also liberate us from fixed ideas about appearance.” - ST LUK
ST: There's a lot of waves happening here. It’s interesting because there’s this mysterious boundary separating two entities—one inside, one outside. What exactly is this boundary? Are they existing in different times? Now I'm realizing this was created shortly after Arakawa passed away, so maybe it's Madeline inside, waving at Arakawa, who’s no longer visible but still somehow present.
CHAITANYA: An entity living forever, right? Perhaps made accessible in a tactile way through this form.
ST: Yeah, exactly. Dana, similar to how you described having a dialogue with something from the first century BCE. It's not so different, right?
DANA: Right. Looking at the image now, what strikes me is the shadow of the figure on the right. From his perspective, we see his shadow and a reflection of her, almost like a mirror. It’s ambiguous: you can either see through this boundary or see her reflected in it. There’s eagerness in her gesture—arm pulled back, reaching forward—while he seems relaxed, casually receiving something. Maybe she represents current time, and he's in both the past and the future?
ST: That’s a good question.
DANA: I don't know if there’s a definitive answer, but he definitely looks like he's casually catching something she’s throwing.
ST: Like catching a baseball.
CHAITANYA: In the captions, Madeline references Greece again. Maybe there's a connection to the Greek god mentioned earlier? It might help us understand who's who. Who was the Greek God again?
ST: Asclepius—the god of medicine and healing.
DANA: Right. And also, are they playing a game? Maybe they're missing pickleball paddles, and this boundary is like a net—a space-time net. Is there a ball involved? It’s a fascinating image. But again, remind me what the Greek god did—something related to health, right?
ST: Maybe it's a space-time-mass-energy pickleball game.
DANA: Exactly. If you lose the ball, it falls into the space-time chasm. Into the crevice, returning back to the player, making it easy so they don’t have to approach the net. It rolls back to them. But also, the woman has a double shadow—something unusual with the lighting.
ST: You're right. It looks like there are two light sources. Asclepius was said to be so skilled he could raise the dead.
DANA: Healing Fun House....Greece…crossing from interior to exterior. So presumably she's on the interior?
ST: Or is he? We see the sky outside, so he must be exterior. Or could it be intentionally ambiguous? Maybe it flips. There's also another scale here—the table.
CHAITANYA: Almost like they’re being summoned at table-scale…
ST: Exactly. There's green tea on the table.
DANA: I also love the squiggly line, the tilde after "hello." What's it called again?
ST: The squiggle? Tilde? I'm not exactly sure. The squiggly line ~.
CHAITANYA: “Every town should have one.” I just noticed that.
DANA: Also, I had the fun house mirror in mind while working on this. Maybe this boundary itself is a giant fun house mirror. Those mirrors warp your body and are probably the closest commercial approximation we have to experiencing space-time. They're incredibly underutilized.
ST: Absolutely. When was the last time you actually encountered one?
DANA: There's this amazing place in St. Louis called the Magic House, a kid-friendly museum inside an old farmhouse. There’s an electrostatic ball that makes your hair stand up, and nearby, a fun house mirror. It's mesmerizing watching both kids and adults interact—stretching their heads, becoming cone-shaped. It's fascinating how your perception instantly shifts. Especially as a kid, encountering this distortion feels like a time warp. The mirror makes you move differently, adjusting yourself to its distortion—but adjusting to what exactly? When I’ve used one, I’ve tried stretching my head or neck to engage differently. How do you both adjust yourselves when faced with a fun house mirror?
ST: That’s a good question. Like, how pointy can your head become?
DANA: Exactly—or how your fingers elongate. Fingers are linear already, so seeing them stretch is fascinating. Trying to touch your nose feels completely different, even though physically it’s the same action. I'm making a piece related to this—I’m not sure it’ll be ready in time—but essentially, you put your hand into a box, and a camera manipulates your hand into fun house space. The projection shows your hand warped and flipped, so you're trying to touch an object, like an apple.
CHAITANYA: I love that extension of the fun house mirror! Exactly what Arakawa and Gins would have wanted explored.
ST: Definitely. A fun house mirror breaks your expectations about your appearance. Adults usually have fixed ideas about how they "should" look, but kids approach these mirrors freely—they simply enjoy the distortion. Imagine if Dover Street Market’s mirrors were all fun house mirrors.
DANA: Right! Clothing designed specifically for fun house mirrors—how would that look normally? Fun house mirrors might actually be our best representation of space-time. You should pitch that idea to Dover Street Market. They’re so underutilized—usually stuck in circuses or children’s museums. But architecturally, they’re remarkable.
CHAITANYA: What intellectual or bodily value do you both see in fun house mirrors?
ST: Certainly fun and humor. They make you see yourself differently and help you stop taking your appearance so seriously. That seems incredibly valuable.
DANA: Exactly—especially with full-body mirrors. They’re humorous and revealing. Maybe people underestimate mirrors—they're powerful optical illusions pulling you into another dimension. They bend your reflection effortlessly, freeing you from rigid ideas about appearance. There's also something unsettling yet intriguing. Ordinary mirrors reassure us—like rearview mirrors while driving, where your mind quickly adapts. But fun house mirrors introduce a comforting chaos, and kids immediately adapt. If my rearview mirror turned into a fun house mirror, I'd feel disoriented. There’s an interesting dynamic between trust and humor there.
ST: Mirrors can function as control mechanisms, reflecting our urge to manage our bodies. But they also liberate us from fixed ideas about appearance.
DANA: They act like a person-organism launcher, propelling you into a new space, creating exciting elasticity.
CHAITANYA: A launcher?! Fascinating imagery.
DANA: In Guilford, Connecticut, there's a famous fair featuring the Wallenda brothers. They shoot someone out of a cannon who flies over 100 feet and lands safely. It’s dangerous but compelling—launching your body through space. Surrendering yourself to that launch, becoming a flying organism, is powerful.
CHAITANYA: Surrendering yourself to become a puzzle creature.
DANA: Exactly. Allowing yourself to surrender—what mechanisms help you do that? A body cannon or bungee cord comes to mind. But a mirror can also achieve this without physically leaving the ground—like a lazy launcher. Lazy launching—I love that idea.
CHAITANYA: This has been amazing. We could talk endlessly about these concepts—and we should...
Bioscleave House (Lifespan Extending Villa) in East Hampton, New York. Photo by Dana Karwas, 2024.
CHAITANYA: I agree. It could launch visitors into that puzzle-person-organism space. It should go in the doorway—or better yet, in the bathroom.
DANA: Definitely the bathroom. People use bathrooms to reset—splash water on their face, look up, and suddenly see themselves distorted. It’d prompt a moment of realization: "Who am I? This is who you are."
CHAITANYA: Right! These playful gestures can help us enter the huge existential questions your work addresses, as well as Arakawa and Gins'. Questions like, where are we in the universe? or who am I? It doesn’t have to be overly scientific we struggle to grasp.
DANA: Exactly. There’s often a kind of macho attitude about understanding complex concepts clearly and authoritatively. But there are other ways to approach these ideas. Arakawa and Gins provide a gateway. I feel like I’m still at the entrance, while ST, you’re deeper into their work. Do you feel like you’ve achieved some enlightenment, or how far do you feel you’ve gotten?
ST: I always feel there’s more to learn—it’s endlessly fascinating. Arakawa and Gins’ work is truly a labyrinth. You literally step into their "Reversible Destiny" museum, surrounded by living bodies and labyrinths. It constantly surprises you. Just when you think you understand something, it breaks apart again. That’s the point—everything is tentative and shifting. Sometimes, I feel like I hardly know their work at all.
CHAITANYA: That’s brilliant. It means there’s always more to explore. Dana and I often feel we've barely started, even after years of engaging with their work.
DANA: Yes, we’ve only scratched the surface. Their work creates this incredible sensation. It’s like when you’ve lived in New York City for a long time—you usually know exactly which direction you’re facing after exiting the subway. But occasionally, you get turned around. You’re certain you're heading north, only to realize a block later you’re going south. Their work constantly evokes that feeling—thinking you know exactly where you are, then suddenly realizing you’re disoriented. It’s both familiar and unfamiliar at once.
ST: Exactly—dizziness. Remember their film about the homeless nine-year-old boy running through the Bowery? In the script, it repeatedly states: "Dizziness is his medium."
CHAITANYA: “Dizziness is his medium”—that’s powerful.
DANA: Maybe that’s the secret message they're sending us.
CHAITANYA: Exactly. "Dizziness is the medium." Also, the phrase "the crevice repeats the perimeter" seems similarly evocative.
DANA: The way scale operates in their work feels refreshing. In architecture school, when using programs like Maya or Rhino, you scale things up or down linearly. But Arakawa and Gins' approach involves jumping between scales and times simultaneously. The Bioscleave House perfectly demonstrates that. At the Bioscleave House, the table, the house’s footprint, and the skylight were all interconnected, but I couldn’t neatly trace how.
ST: Constantly juggling scales!
QINGYUAN DENG
Two things can be true at the same time...all it takes is somehow managing to pay the price needed for maintaining a conviction and knowing.
Saint Augustine tells us that forgiveness is reciprocal—forgive others so you will be forgiven by God. I have always had a hard time believing in the primacy of God, and I am suspicious that I will ever feel his presence, even when directly encountering the sublime. Still, I generally find forgiveness a beautiful exercise—with its own limit, nevertheless. So here are my lists of conduct: forgivable and unforgivable.Being under the influence of love is always permissible. Recently, an art magazine asked me to write about Paul Thek and I wanted to revisit sections of Aliens and Anorexia (2000) where Chris Kraus conjures up Thek’s homosexual, HIV-positive, and Catholic body. But then I realized I had gifted my copy of Aliens and Anorexia—signed by Chris herself after her recent reading at the Poetry Project—to my ex last year, along with some fine china my mother instructed me to send to an important gallerist who signed my visa letter. I said “if you read this, you will understand who I am.” Now I am too embarrassed to ask for it back. I wonder if he could truly appreciate how unruly Chris’s writing is. More importantly, I recently realized I’d do it again if I were sent back in time—not because I fetishize being a martyr for love, but because, admittedly, failure is often more beautiful than success. Love gives time a legible account, defying the fraught mythology of historicity at each disjuncture.
Love gives time a legible account, defying the fraught mythology of historicity at each disjuncture.
Weaponizing low emotional intelligence is never forgivable. A 35-year-old marketing executive I went on a date with last week said that my sweatshirt, printed with the branding of a defunct psych ward in San Francisco, is worrisome and not funny. He then professed that he finds a politics of truth in children’s literature and declared James Joyce’s short stories about Ireland unsuitable for my literature education. For the longest time, I felt oppressed by being 24 and believed that 35 was a desirable age to be. I fantasized that these men in their mid-thirties have learned something I simply couldn’t from reading French Theory. Yet the truth is: a 35-year-old former writer—or anyone who thinks art is unrealistic, removed from everyday life—has nothing to offer, burdened as they are by the cruelest aspects of life rather than delighting in them. Perhaps low emotional intelligence is just a fear of affect. Bad grammar is more than forgivable. Language is a prison anyway.
Flip-flopping is forgivable; no one wants to go near the end and realize there’s no coming back.
Writing autofiction isn’t fabricating an ideal self, excusing bad behavior, or indulging a victim mentality. The gravity of getting closer to the topology of unconsciousness outweighs the low-stakes writing about places and people a writer has no connection to, which I find inadmissible. Everything is autofiction, dare I say?I am not sure why Baudrillard on his deathbed spent so much energy laboring over the question if everything has or has not disappeared, and I am not here to psychoanalyze him. Two things can be true at the same time, as my ex used to say. I did not believe him back then. And now I do. All it takes is somehow managing to pay the price needed for maintaining a conviction and knowing another opposite conviction is just as real. Or better, render everything equally true and false at the same time. Taking a position might be admirable, but it makes one unforgiving. I learned this from producing videos of my ex last summer. They are fractured kaleidoscopes of faces, places, and objects that would remind me of him, propelled by the rightful predication that things were coming to an end. In making these videos, I realized that remembering trivial melodramas of the personal is a more mounting task than forgetting to suffer at all. One amendment that makes the process less punishing is that the best thing a video could aspire to be is a symbol.
One video, as if commissioned by a shadowy think tank with a fixation on alternate histories, is my ex’s recorded monologue: with a knowing, almost tender malice, his lips moved silently, mouthing words I couldn’t quite decipher, with shallow gasps between increasingly strained chains of signification, with practiced detachment from the emptiness, and with mechanical devotion to the emptiness itself. A Hungarian psychoanalyst once told me every archive is a tomb. A tomb has a destination—unlike the act of filling a hollow vessel with water only to watch it leak away, which more accurately describes the constructed nature of memory.
Flip-flopping is forgivable; no one wants to go near the end and realize there’s no coming back.
DANIELLE EZZO
At first glance, everything appears legible. Then you realize that the looming cosmos, typically sublime, inaccessible, and overhead, sits humbly at your feet... The galaxy becomes miniature, attainable. The unknown transforms into the readymade, airing even on the side of the comic.
At the center of Dana Karwas’ Thirty Six Point Eight Hours—a solo exhibition at Spill 180—is a pendulum. The bob at the tip of the pendulum is a camera that swings insistently to the rhythm of planetary time. This eye, of sorts, looks down toward a pedestal where a piece of velveteen fabric with a printed image from the James Webb Space Telescope is draped. The pendulum takes 36.8 hours to complete one full apparent rotation at the latitude of the gallery—a nod to the Foucault pendulum, the well-known 19th-century experiment that first made Earth’s rotation visible. Karwas adopts this gesture but subtly shifts our perspective.
At first glance, everything appears legible. Then you realize that the looming cosmos, typically sublime, inaccessible, and overhead, sits humbly at your feet. Meanwhile, the camera—an epistemological tool for apprehending the sky and all other parts of the natural world—is now an object of scrutiny, moving above the fabric image in mnemonic orbits. The galaxy becomes miniature, attainable. The unknown transforms into the readymade, airing even on the side of the comic. With this, Karwas points to space at both a human and galactic scale and that the tools we employ (cameras, telescopes, microscopes, satellites) have a baked-in subjectivity, suggesting it’s a fool’s errand to think we have an accurate grasp of any of it.
Around the pendulum, smaller works form a constellation along the surrounding walls that extend the inquiry: In Cosmological Funhouse Mirror, a mirrored plexiglass surface warps the viewer’s reflection. The mirror flattens and curves, sending back a version of the self that’s monstrous and deformed. In Event Horizon, volcanic pumice and bright acrylic form a craggy topology too abrasive to touch.
Thirty Six Point Eight Hours is not an explanation or a lesson of the scientific. Rather, the work jovially resists the cool distance of rational empiricism. It wants to—against all odds—be felt, sensed, and inhabited.
In the film Interstellar, which is known for its scientifically accurate representation of physics phenomena, director Christopher Nolan collaborated with theoretical physicist Kip Thorne, an expert on general relativity and black holes. In the scene where the crew, Matthew McConaughey (as Cooper), Anne Hathaway (as Brand), and Wes Bentley (as Doyle), of the Endurance pass through the outer membrane of a blackhole, the threshold appears almost slippery.Yet, Karwas’ version is small, coarse, and dense even. The decidedly tactile material choices create a dichotomy to what is known and often represented in popular culture. Arguably, the subjectivity of relying on the body as the primary sensing apparatus and physicality as a form of play are two of the central themes of the show.
In conversation, she described her interest in “the spectacular absurdity of modern scientific discovery.” It’s a compelling phrase—one that might imply both awe and folly. We live at a time when the most mind-bending revelations about the universe dissipate into our screens, barely eliciting a response. As the tools we use to see the world increase in resolution and our knowledge expands, comprehension recedes because it’s hard to memeify that type of complexity. Thirty Six Point Eight Hours is not an explanation or a lesson of the scientific. Rather, the work jovially resists the cool distance of rational empiricism. It wants to—against all odds—be felt, sensed, and inhabited. As such, it aligns with a lineage of artists and thinkers who have challenged the dominance of reason as the sole route to knowledge. It makes sense, then, that Arakawa and Madeline Gins, who were known for designing architectural spaces that challenged comfort, perception, and attention, are influential to her.
The exhibition calls on the sensory experiences that are often left out of intellectual discourse because, perhaps, they reconnect the viewer with a primordial knowing that is within us all...Thirty Six Point Eight Hours reminds me that sometimes understanding arrives like a shiver, sideways and up the spine.
There’s a standoff between Move Away from Me and Step a Little Closer to Me, two relatively large, UV printed, color studies. Each radial gradient references the Doppler effect, the change in frequency of a wave in relation to an observer, with a kind of ascetic restraint. The idea is simple enough: when something in space moves away, its light stretches red. When it comes closer, the light compresses blue. With this in mind, the titles serve not just as a reference to the cold abstraction of information, but of the corporeal value that resonates throughout the exhibition.
This experiential thrust—the insistence on the body as part of the larger equation—echoes Matthew Fuller and Eyal Weizman’s proposals in Investigative Aesthetics: Conflicts and Commons in the Politics of Truth. In the book, they argue for aesthetics as a form of inquiry and a way to engage with complex realities that evade traditional disciplines, and how sensing through advanced or cleverly appropriated tooling affords the artist a new kind of creative freedom and way of seeing. The exhibition calls on the sensory experiences that are often left out of intellectual discourse because, perhaps, they reconnect the viewer with a primordial knowing that is within us all.
Sometimes I still think knowledge is something you earn by devoting yourself to the inscrutable. But Thirty Six Point Eight Hours reminds me that sometimes understanding arrives like a shiver, sideways and up the spine. Sense perception—touch, sight, proximity, heat—isn’t a lesser form of knowing. It’s just harder to credential. It demands we reach out and touch it, even if you need to bend over to find heaven.