One begins to disassemble a section of Phyllida Barlow’s installation, pieces lifting and floating in defiance of natural laws. There is no destruction in their gesture, only inquiry. They pull apart the components of RIG as if unweaving a story, their presence suggesting intent but not judgment. Barlow’s vision is undisturbed; rather, it expands, fills the room, spills into dimensions unseen.
The largest Visitor, whose form shifts like a storm trapped in glass, pauses near a suspended mass of painted fabric and wire. They tilt their "head" as if listening. The material begins to shimmer. The fabric vibrates, its paint bleeding and rearranging into shapes that defy human comprehension. The Visitor seems to laugh—a soundless ripple that causes the air itself to shimmer.
The museum’s walls quiver.
The Visitors’ forms converge, folding into each other until they are a single, shifting being. They hover in the center of the space, a pulsating mass of light and shadow. The room is silent except for the low hum of the installation, which seems to have absorbed the Visitors’ resonance.
Then, as suddenly as they appeared, the Visitors dissolve. Not into the air, but into the work itself.
The sculptures remain unchanged yet profoundly altered. The precarious stacks seem more alive, their tensions and weights more immediate, their presence more defiant. The room feels smaller, as though the installation has grown impossibly larger, pressing against the edges of perception.
RIG is no longer merely a collection of materials. It is a portal, a conversation, a memory of something unspoken and eternal.
And the Visitors linger, imperceptible now, woven into the fabric of the installation, watching, waiting, becoming.