My room vs. your room. The (bed)room is affiliated with a certain person or couple/group of people. We all reaffirm this by implicitly and explicitly ‘trademarking’ these rooms—a layer upon layer of trademarks. My room is made up of objects and ideas (tangible and intangible components), which index myself. In other words, my room is brimming with “identisign[s] ”, arranged in the order or disorder I desire.*
Throughout the years, I have crafted an eclectic range of DIY and creative writing projects. Not many have left the comfort of my room.
My room is also the site of many experiences and emotions. I trudge, skip, or slink to my room for a number of reasons: escapism, privacy, safety, reflection, among others. I close the doors to my room for necessary isolation, though the duration will vary.
At the same time, when I close the doors, who or what am I avoiding? Who has access to my room—and with that, my thoughts, ideas, and creations?
Is there a venue to safely share pieces of this mental-physical space with others? And if so, where?
At the Gladstone Hotel, the Come Up To My Room (CUTMR) contemporary art exhibition embraces open doors. After all, the title even suggests an enthusiasm to welcome and grant access to those who may think of themselves as outsiders.
This year’s exhibition took place just a few weeks ago, from January 17th to 20th. Throughout the four floors of the hotel, artists set up installations within confined spaces—some in hallways or staircases, others in hotel rooms. Such an ‘unveiling’ encouraged visitors to observe (in some material form), engage with, and even relate to the spatially-aware contents and assemblages. Simultaneously, they could move beyond the ‘personal room or space’ threshold and experience a representation of artists’ thoughts, ideas, desires, experiences, reflections, or aims for generating conversations around certain topics.
I first explored the first-floor lobby space. Close by the front desk, and suspended just above, I encountered a cloud-shaped entanglement. It signified hair, but only to a certain point—since it was, in truth, not real hair. Anna Rose’s installation, Hair Piece, was whimsical and simultaneously offbeat. It called on me to ponder the following: ‘should I attempt to touch the representation that looks strikingly similar to its represented?’ Such an uncanny experience.
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| To touch or not to touch Rose’s Hair Piece? Photo courtesy of Christina Bondi. |
The second floor housed many of the installations—13 in total. Here, I will only note a few that struck an exhilarating, unsettling, DIY, and nostalgic cord in me.
For one, Room (Studio) 209 presents Bruno Billio’s Tron209. The artist remixed his own studio in a new ‘light’—literally. Blacklights emphasized the fluorescent green outlines of furniture within the space. The fast-paced music added to this energizing environment of entertainment.
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| Remix in Billio’s Tron209. Photo courtesy of Christina Bondi. |
The Franktur installation, by the [R]ed[U]x Lab (Ryerson University), generated a great sense of unease within me. In Room (Studio) 206, an ominous combination of geometry and artificial breathing brought about a sudden and shocking self-awareness. Here, a couple of my own core phobias had been magnified. As a result, I could not stay for long. Even as I look back at the photographs now, I cannot help but cringe.
As a striking contrast, however, my partner found the installation strange yet captivating. He stayed for quite some time (and also took the photograph). I waited just outside the door, taking a few deep breaths.
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| Phobias come alive in Franktur ([R]ed[U]x Lab). Photo courtesy of Geordie Jeakins. |
Room (Studio) 205 was filled with cityscape shadows. Chromatic Aberration’s Penumbra stacked crates of varying heights and colours, to serve as platforms for wooden and glass structures. Some structures housed lights: the source(s) of luminescence in this room. The installation is mimetic of an urban space. I wondered about the thoughts and conversations between individuals—as well as the solitary or social activities taking place—within these miniature structures. The DIY-crafted city seemed to embrace a spirited and dreamy essence.
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| DIY Urban Mimesis in Penumbra. Photo courtesy of Christina Bondi. |
In Room (Studio) 202, Thompson’s A City/Chandelier suspended from above. Sets of thin, clear geographical or architectural designs were layered and supported (by threads attached to the ceiling). As I turned to look upward, I found it fascinating to see how the layers engaged with one another at such an angle—how they became interconnected. These separate pieces were recombined to present different, enlightening signification.
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| Multi-layered Spatiality: Thompson’s A City/Chandelier. Photo courtesy of Christina Bondi |
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| Old and new in Gemmiti and Stoeten’s Cabinet Fantastique. Photo courtesy of Christina Bondi. |
On the third floor, along a hallway, Five Percent set up their installation, Poché. Red lights filled the space. Ambiguous spectral reside on walls. These elements constructed an eerie environment. The visitor could sense that human-like figures manifest within the space; these ‘spectres’ add depth to a constructed place (i.e. a hotel).
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| The ambiguous spectres of Five Percent’s Poché. Photo courtesy of Christina Bondi. |
Cole Swanson’s Terraflora consumes another side of the third-floor. It imagines a structure exhibiting signs of decay. These natural elements assume control over the urban or the artificially constructed.
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| Swanson’s Terraflora and Decay. Photo courtesy of Christina Bondi. |
*Danesi, M. (2014). Signs of crime: introducing forensic semiotics. Boston, Ma: De Gruyter Mouton.
