The Immersive Art Bubble Needs to Burst

It is time to say something unfashionable about immersive art: I am tired of being chased around a room by Van Gogh’s face.

You know the format. A famous painter’s work is enlarged to the size of a municipal swimming pool, projected onto every available wall, and accompanied by music that begins as wistful piano and ends as if the artist has just won the Super Bowl. The stars move. The clouds pulse. A sunflower may briefly become a portal to another dimension. Everyone takes a photograph of themselves looking thoughtfully at a digital wheat field.

I understand the appeal. Museums can be intimidating. Original paintings are often smaller than expected, protected behind glass, and surrounded by people whispering with the urgency of undercover librarians. An immersive show says: Come in. Sit down. You are allowed to have a feeling here.

Good. Wonderful. Art should welcome people. But welcome is not the same thing as surrendering the keys to the theater department.

The trouble is that these experiences often turn artists into playlists with hair. Van Gogh becomes “sad but hopeful.” Monet becomes “sparkly.” Frida Kahlo becomes “trauma, flowers, repeat.” The messy, contradictory person disappears beneath a fog machine of inspirational content. Paintings that once demanded patience are converted into wallpaper for a motivational speech.

And here is my radical proposal: call it what it is. A digital spectacle inspired by an artist. A multimedia tribute. A very expensive screensaver with excellent branding. I would happily attend one under that description, especially if there is a rotating room and a gift shop selling absurdly large socks. What I object to is the suggestion that watching a painting dissolve into butterflies is the same as looking at the painting.

Real looking is slower and less obedient. You notice the awkward hand, the muddy shadow, the tiny figure in the distance who appears to be having a worse day than everyone else. You discover that an artist was not a saint, a genius vending machine, or a quote printed on a mug. You discover the work arguing with itself.

So keep the projections. Keep the music. Let children dance in the light. But put an actual painting nearby, too, and give it ten quiet minutes. The spectacle can open the door. It just shouldn’t get to redecorate the house.