The Infinity Machine
Have you ever deliberately merged reality with fantasy, creating a surreal hybrid that feels both foreign and familiar? How did it shape you? Did it tilt your perspective? Or did it overwhelm you, pushing you beyond your limits?
Before I share how The Infinity Machine shifted my world, I should confess: there are moments in my dreams when I crave an escape—a passage into the unknown. Maybe it’s because my reality feels too intense, like an unrelenting storm, or so stagnant that I can’t find the spark to keep going. I’ve built surreal pathways for myself, and each time I emerge without regret, knowing I’ve ventured into a pure, conscious odyssey. These experiences don’t necessarily strengthen me, but they deepen my emotional core.
The first time I stepped into Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller's The Infinity Machine in the Byzantine Fresco Chapel at the Menil Collection, it was as if I stumbled into a living dream. Suspended mirrors, in all shapes and sizes, slowly rotated in unison, their hypnotic dance paired with the haunting sounds of NASA’s NASA's Voyager I and II probes. At first, I likened it to stepping "Through the Looking Glass." But once my mind loosened its grip, I found myself tumbling through an abyss of reflected light and shadow. The sensation was unnervingly intimate, as though I were falling into an endless void, uncertain of where—or if—I’d land.
I remember feeling a profound unease when I tried to meet my own gaze in the mirrors. Instead, I let my thoughts drift, silently singing Alice’s wishful song to her cat: a yearning for a world of her own.
The experience was euphoric, a brief plunge into another dimension. Yet, it left me questioning: How infinite is infinity, really? Do I believe in forever? Can a fleeting moment stretch into eternity? And what would happen if I dared to leap through those mirrors into the unknown? Could I distinguish between the life I live and the one I long for?
Today was the final day of The Infinity Machine at the chapel. This afternoon, I returned with two close friends (they’re getting married soon—hey, lovebirds!) and decided to release some of the illusions I once clung to as infinite. It wasn’t easy. My emotions ran deep, but surrendering to the universe’s quiet guidance made the weight bearable. In that space, I let go and imagined my body dissolving into the cosmos, absorbing its rhythm. It felt cinematic, like a scene from a Godard film.
