Kusama's Mirror

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It was me of course, yet it wasn’t. The image moved with me at every turn. The clothes were the same, and moved in the exact same manner. But it was as if I were staring at a complete stranger. It seemed cold and disconnected to the reality it reflected. Perhaps my apathy was due to my knowledge of its origins. Perhaps it was that I was not viewing the glass as it was meant to be viewed. I don’t know what I expected to see from the famed Kusama Mirror, but it certainly wasn’t this haunting image.

The piece had been gifted to the gallery by the estate of the famed sculptor for its longstanding support of his work. It arrived with very explicit instructions on how it was to be displayed. The height and position of the mirror as well as the dimensions and appearance of the room it hung in were precisely adhered to right down to the exact color of the paint on the surrounding walls. There were also strict protocols on how the piece could be viewed. The viewings were by appointment only and limited to only one individual at a time. They were allotted fifteen minutes alone with the piece and not one second more. They were free to touch the glass if they were so inclined. The gallery had to polish it thoroughly to remove any trace of the individual before the next appointment arrived. Monitoring of the display by the estate would be random and covert. Any digression from these instructions would be cause for immediate repossession. The Director was ecstatic. So desperate to have the piece, he would have recreated the Sistine Chapel in a nine by nine room just to keep it in their possession.

I was there when they unpacked it, and aided the Director with the installation. It was nothing more than a six foot by four foot piece of reflective glass. It had a rather odd shimmering effect around the beveled edges which appeared to be the only thing unique about it. Frankly, I’d seen fancier mirrors in hotel restrooms, although I kept this opinion to myself. Not because I feared offending the Director, I’d heard him say far worse things about some of the ghastly pieces we’d sold. There was just something disturbing about it that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. As if it were a living thing watching us and absorbing every word we said. That was the first time I experienced the Kusama Mirror.

For its debut, a select group of wealthy contributors were given complimentary appointments to view the mirror during a private opening. A common parade of old farts struggling to hold themselves upright under the weight of the furs and bulky jewelry the wore peppered by millionaire millennials and Gen Z entrepreneurs whose knowledge of art extended no further than the NFT’s and crypto they traded. They all had only one thing in common that night. The person that went in to view the Kusama Mirror was not the person who came out. Most were disoriented. A couple of the older ones experienced palpitations with the gallery rushing them off in private ambulances. One bitcoin millionaire actually came out hysterical and had a cardiac event. The Director quickly spread the rumor that mescaline had been involved in his experience and cautioned the other patrons on its use.

After everyone left, I went in to inspect the room and see to its cleaning. It was nothing more than a plain, white room with a huge glass hung from the ceiling on disguised wiring. The reflections of the cleaning crew were as ordinary as my own. But they were also different in a way that I could not articulate. I chalked it up to too much wine and hype and went home. I looked at myself in my bathroom mirror and saw nothing unusual. Same old me, same old expression. I went to bed feeling stupid. In the weeks that followed, appointments to see the mirror produced a waiting list three months long. The astronomical price being charged for a viewing pumped new life into the gallery allowing it to expand and take on more prestigious art, and I was promoted to Assistant Director. But for all the good the mirror brought to us, it took something from those who viewed it. I watched these people come and go, each time looking less than when they arrived. Not different, just less.

Six months later, I decided to see the Kusama Mirror under the prescribed circumstances. Everyone knew I disliked the thing, so I waited until the gallery closed and I was alone. I locked up and took a glance at myself in the mirror next to my desk. Perfectly me in every way. Downstairs, I set the lighting and the timer for the room as I had for every other visitor and went inside. It was just a white room with an unassuming mirror at the other end, nothing more. I closed the door behind me and the room went black. The mirror now floated in the dark reflecting only my image back to me. I walked slowly towards it not noticing how the room behind the reflection was not the same. I stood mesmerized by myself. The me that wasn’t me. She was different than the first time, more hollow. There were dark circles under her eyes and her expression was haunted. Behind her there was no room, only a dark, desolate wasteland. A slight breeze caused her hair to flutter even though mine remained still. A trick of the artist no doubt. Some internal technology meant to mess with the visitor. I glanced behind myself. Nothing but flat blackness and no breeze. Turning back to the me that wasn’t, I raised my hand towards the mirror. I could feel a current pulsing from it, urging me to touch it and repelling me at the same time. As if my reflection and I were opposing magnets. I moved, she moved. I waved, she waved. I spun around and so did she. It’s just a funhouse mirror silly girl! I told myself with a muted giggle.

I reached out to touch the mirror and prove to myself that it was only a hunk of glass. My hand resisted at first, but then gave way as if pushing through a bowl of Jell-O. I felt the glass between where my hand met my reflection. I closed my eyes and let out the breath I had been holding. That was when I felt it. A hand closing down around my own. I open my eyes to see my reflection glaring at me, her palm in a death grip around my own. I screamed and pulled away but she wouldn’t let go. As hard as I pulled, I could literally feel her pulling me back. Forcing her into her world. I slammed my free hand against the mirror screaming louder. She pulled harder. I pounded my fist against the glass until I heard a loud crack. Suddenly, the other let go. I scrambled back from the now ruined mirror staring at my reflection through the starry crack. Her hand was bleeding from the cut glass. We heaved in unison glaring at each other, backing away until I felt the door behind me. I stood there staring until the bell chimed and the door unlocked. I ran out and hid in the restroom down the hall.

The Director was going to be furious in the morning. His precious art display was ruined, and I knew getting fired would be the least he would do to me. Millions of dollars couldn’t replace the Kusama Mirror or the gallery’s reputation. I stumbled to the sink and ran the water over my hand. There was no blood. I turned my hand over and over looking for some shard or cut left by the glass but there was nothing. I couldn’t have imagined it. I know I saw myself in that mirror bleeding and cradling my injured hand, but it was as if nothing had happened. Slowly I crept down to the main floor and made my way to the room. There was no blood trail on the floor and no blood of any kind on the white walls. Just a bare room with an odd, floating mirror on the other end. A mirror that had no crack in it whatsoever. I slammed the door to the mirror room, locked it, and left.

I arrived the next morning sporting a frightful hangover from the amount of booze it had taken to calm me enough to sleep. The gallery was buzzing and the Director was ordering the staff in all directions. The mirror room was again open and the exhibit shone as brightly as it did before my encounter. I watched all day as people entered and exited the little room shaken and disoriented. I wondered if their reflections had tried to abduct them as well. It was another week before I got up the courage to revisit the room. This time I went armed with my cell phone determined to capture evidence of what I’d seen. I turned on the video capture, set the timer and closed the door behind me.

Again that strange shimmer enveloped the floating mirror and my doppelganger appeared. She looked even more wretched than she had the last time despite the new clothes and comfortable shoes I was wearing. The circles under her eyes were darker and she seemed to have lost weight somehow. The landscape behind her was also starker, as if some unnatural disaster had blasted the world bare. Cell phone in hand and recording, I approached her noticing that the cell phone was the only thing of mine she did not possess. As I pointed the phone at my reflection, I reached up with my free hand and touched the mirror. My reflection echoed my movements with empty hands, one pretending to hold an object and the other meeting my touch. There was no resistance this time. Our hands touched and I felt the pulsing of power. We stood staring at each other as I recorded the encounter, both of us smiling slightly. Again, her hand closed over mine. She continued to smile. Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist with her free hand and her smile turned to a snarl. I could feel her physically pulling me into the mirror, into her universe. Too late, I dropped the phone and threw my foot up against the glass, but it wasn’t enough. I was slipping ever closer to the mirror.

I began to beat the glass hoping to crack it again, but I was too close to do any serious damage. As my faced touched the glass, my doppelganger’s hand shot through and wrapped around my throat. Before I knew it, I was suddenly falling through a viscous barrier, tumbling over and over. I hit the ground hard enough to make my head spin. I could feel a stinging breeze on my face and the dirt below me stank of ozone. All around me lay destruction. The remnants of a civilization long annihilated. A wasteland of humanity. I sat up and looked back at the mirror. The me that was not me lay on the floor in the small dark room where I had been. We stood up together on equally shaky legs, each trying to get the feel of our respective worlds. But when I ran to the mirror, she did not. She reached down to pick up the cell phone I had dropped and turned it off. I beat on the glass with all my might screaming at the top of my lungs at the girl who was me but not. I could see stars cracking in the surface of the mirror on my side. Blood oozed from a dozen wounds and splinters from the mirror surface drove deeper into my hands as I fought. Me who was not me, only stared back, examining me as one would examine a fly on a window. She watched as I tired and began to cry. I pleaded with her to let me out of the mirror, but she only smiled and waited for the bell to chime. Putting the cell phone into her pocket she turned and walked toward the door. I watched the lights go up and I screamed for help as loud as I could hoping someone outside the room could hear me. She smiled as she closed the door.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here in this dark and desolate universe. There is no sense of time here. I keep count by watching the Pilgrims; those born in this place, called to a better world by the mirror’s siren song. Several arrive each day but only a few manage the crossing through the mirror. Those whose desperation outweighs the hubris of their counterparts. There are also others here like me. those who dared to peer into the depths of the mirror and face their reflection. More arrive every day. I see them wandering in the wasteland, lost and confused. They are themselves. Not less than they were, not yet anyway. They hide in the shadows and wait as I do, hoping that one day the one who is not them will return and stare into Kusama’s Mirror once more. Waiting for the day when their reflection will appear.

I think of those people who visited the gallery day in and day out paying handsomely for a glimpse into the mirror. Were they reflections of the one who entered or just the ones lucky enough to escape? Will they always be less than? I hide in the shadows as the wind blows around me, while the me who is not me walks in the sunshine of my world. Will anyone notice that she doesn’t belong? That she is somehow less than me?