{"id":105207,"date":"2026-09-05T13:56:25","date_gmt":"2026-09-05T13:56:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ccmagazine.es\/?p=105207"},"modified":"2026-09-05T15:01:15","modified_gmt":"2026-09-05T15:01:15","slug":"infinite-kusama","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ccmagazine.es\/en\/infinite-kusama\/","title":{"rendered":"Infinite Kusama"},"content":{"rendered":"

By Cecilia Camacho, founder of CC\/magazine and strategic consultant at CC\/studio<\/em><\/p>\n

In 1958, Yayoi Kusama<\/strong> arrived in New York at the age of 29, determined to make a place for herself in an art scene that was about to become the international centre of contemporary art. Born in Matsumoto, in Japan\u2019s Nagano Prefecture, before setting off she had done something that reveals both her ambition and her ability to pursue what might have seemed improbable: she sent some of her work to Georgia O\u2019Keeffe<\/em>, whom she had never met, and asked for advice on how to establish herself in the United States. O\u2019Keeffe<\/em> replied, warning her of the difficulties she would face. Kusama<\/em>went anyway.<\/p>\n

Her arrival in New York is particularly interesting when viewed from the present, now that her visual universe has become so recognisable that a polka-dotted pumpkin or a mirrored room is enough to identify her. Back then, however, there was no international phenomenon, no blockbuster exhibitions and no immediate association between certain images and her name. Kusama<\/em> was a virtually unknown Japanese artist arriving in an extraordinarily competitive city, in an art world dominated by men, convinced that her work deserved a place within it.<\/p>\n

There is a tendency to explain her career through the obsessions and hallucinations she had experienced since childhood, as though her work were the inevitable consequence of those experiences. But that interpretation leaves out a fundamental part of both her personality and her career: Kusama<\/em> possessed enormous ambition and an unusual degree of confidence in the importance of what she was doing. She wanted to be an artist, she wanted her work to transcend the borders of Japan, and she was prepared to organise much of her life around that purpose.<\/p>\n

In New York, she began exhibiting her Infinity Nets<\/em>, large surfaces covered with small arcs that she painstakingly repeated until they formed networks that seemed to have no end. At a time when Abstract Expressionism still exerted enormous influence over the American art scene, these paintings proposed a very different approach. In place of the artist\u2019s expansive, recognisable gesture was a meticulous repetition that gradually made it difficult to distinguish one element from the next, transforming the surface of the canvas into something apparently limitless.<\/p>\n

In New York, she began exhibiting her Infinity Nets, that she painstakingly repeated until they formed networks that seemed to have no end.<\/h2>\n

Repetition would ultimately become one of the keys to understanding almost everything Kusama<\/em> did afterwards. Dots, nets, forms, lights and reflections spread throughout her work until they visually erased the boundaries between objects and the space surrounding them. This exploration was connected to experiences that had accompanied her since childhood, when she began to have hallucinations in which certain patterns seemed to multiply and cover everything around her, including her own body. By transferring them first to paper and later to canvas, sculpture and installation, she found a way of transforming an intimate and disturbing experience into an artistic language that could be shared with others.<\/p>\n

From this also emerged an idea that would run through her work for decades: self-obliteration<\/em>, the dissolution of the self. Kusama<\/em> imagined the individual as a tiny presence within something infinitely greater, and repetition allowed her to represent that loss of boundaries. A dot could multiply until it covered an entire surface; a net could expand until it became impossible to determine where it began or ended; and a handful of objects, reflected in mirrors, could appear to continue indefinitely.<\/p>\n

During the 1960s, she expanded this exploration far beyond painting. She experimented with soft sculptures, installations, happenings, naked bodies, film and actions associated with pacifism and opposition to the Vietnam War. In 1965, she presented Infinity Mirror Room\u2014Phalli\u2019s Field<\/em>, using mirrors to multiply forms that she had previously had to reproduce by hand. The technique allowed her to take one of her obsessions to a different scale: repetition no longer depended solely on the number of objects she could create, but could extend visually far beyond the physical boundaries of the room.<\/p>\n

The following year, she brought Narcissus Garden<\/em> to the Venice Biennale<\/em> without having been officially invited to participate. The installation consisted of hundreds of reflective spheres placed on the grass, which Kusama<\/em> began offering to visitors for two dollars each until the organisers stopped her from selling them. The action raised questions about narcissism, value and the commercialisation of art, while the artist herself was attempting to claim a visibility that official structures had not yet granted her.<\/p>\n

When she was a child began to have hallucinations in which certain patterns seemed to multiply.<\/h2>\n

Within this tension lies one of the most fascinating contradictions of her career. While her work explored the possibility of dissolving the individual into something much larger, Kusama<\/em> fought to assert her own presence in the art world. The artist striving to make herself visible was simultaneously creating work that returned again and again to the disappearance of the self \u2014 a relationship between identity and dissolution that would take on new dimensions as her recognition grew.<\/p>\n

Kusama<\/em> returned permanently to Japan in 1973, and for a time her presence on the international art scene lost some of the momentum it had gained in New York. She continued to paint, make work and write and, in 1977, voluntarily admitted herself to a psychiatric hospital in Tokyo. From then on, she organised her life around a routine she would maintain for decades, living at the hospital and regularly travelling to her studio to work.<\/p>\n

While she continued creating, international perceptions of her work began to change. Its rediscovery by institutions and exhibitions led to a reassessment of the role she had played in the avant-garde movements of the 1960s and, in 1993, she returned to the Venice Biennale<\/em> under radically different circumstances from those of 1966: this time, she was Japan\u2019s official representative. The artist who had entered that stage uninvited decades earlier now returned with the backing of her country and a recognition that would continue to grow in the years that followed.<\/p>\n

That recognition would eventually reach extraordinary proportions. Pumpkins, polka dots and Infinity Mirror Rooms<\/em>gradually crossed the conventional boundaries of contemporary art and entered popular culture, while her exhibitions attracted enormous audiences and her collaborations with fashion extended the reach of a visual language that had become almost instantly recognisable. At the same time, her red wig, polka-dotted clothes and carefully constructed public persona meant that Kusama<\/em> herself became visually integrated into the universe she had created.<\/p>\n

Such a degree of recognition has a curious consequence: the more familiar a body of work becomes, the easier it is to mistake recognising its visual codes for understanding what lies behind them. Kusama<\/em>\u2019s popularity meant that millions of people could identify her work, but it also encouraged an extraordinarily complex career to be frequently reduced to dots, pumpkins and mirrored rooms. Behind those images was an artist who had worked across painting, sculpture, installation, performance, literature and film, and who had spent decades reflecting on the body, sexuality, fear, death, repetition and our relationship with forces greater than ourselves.<\/p>\n

The Infinity Mirror Rooms are the example of the distance between the complexity of her work and the extraordinary popularity it eventually achieved.<\/h2>\n

The Infinity Mirror Rooms<\/em> are perhaps the clearest example of the distance between the complexity of her work and the extraordinary popularity it eventually achieved. When we enter them, our bodies cease to occupy an easily defined space and instead appear multiplied among lights and reflections, becoming just another presence within an apparently endless image. For a few moments, the experience alters the familiar relationship between the individual and space, because it becomes difficult to establish where one ends and the other begins.<\/p>\n

Decades after Kusama<\/em> began exploring these ideas, those same rooms became some of the most photographed spaces in contemporary art. The transformation is fascinating because a body of work connected to the dissolution of the self also became a setting in which millions of visitors wanted to record their own presence. There is no need to interpret this development as a trivialisation of her work to recognise the paradox it contains: we enter a space conceived to alter our perception of individuality, and one of our first impulses is to take out our phone and photograph ourselves inside it.<\/p>\n

That contradiction feels particularly contemporary at a time when we live surrounded by tools designed to display and differentiate us, while participating in platforms where millions of people are doing exactly the same thing. The need to assert our individuality coexists with the awareness that we are part of an almost infinite stream of images, opinions and other people\u2019s lives, and Kusama<\/em>\u2019s rooms seem to capture that tension with a precision she could hardly have anticipated when she first began developing these ideas. Inside them, we occupy the centre of our own image and, at the same time, are barely more than one repeated figure among countless others.<\/p>\n

As her work acquired new interpretations and her name became a cultural phenomenon, one thing remained remarkably constant throughout her life: Kusama<\/em> kept working. Recognition, retrospectives, collaborations and popularity radically changed her position within the art world, but they did not alter a routine built over decades around the need to create.<\/p>\n

Her relationship with work emerges with particular clarity in the Proust Questionnaire<\/em> she completed for Vanity Fair<\/em>. Asked what her idea of perfect happiness was, she replied that it was creating a good work of art; when speaking about what she valued most, she once again mentioned her art; and when asked which talent she would most like to possess, she answered that she wished she could paint for ever. Read after her death, those answers take on another dimension, not so much because of their emotional resonance as because of how closely they reflect the way she lived.<\/p>\n

Kusama<\/em> spent more than seven decades returning to a handful of obsessions and continually finding new ways to develop them. While our culture often associates creativity with the need to produce something different, her career demonstrates that it is also possible to build an immense body of work by delving ever deeper into the same questions. Dots, nets, mirrors and pumpkins reappeared year after year without ever remaining exactly the same, because the context, the scale and the artist herself were changing with them.<\/p>\n

I have been fortunate enough to encounter Yayoi Kusama<\/em>\u2019s work at different moments and in different places, from the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art<\/em> in Denmark to Tate Modern<\/em> in London, the Stedelijk Museum<\/em> in Amsterdam, the Serralves Museum<\/em> in Porto and MoMA<\/em> in New York. Each time, I have been reminded that you can see hundreds of photographs of her installations and think you know exactly what to expect, yet actually being inside them remains an experience that is difficult to anticipate.<\/p>\n

What I remember most is the altered sense of scale her spaces create, the difficulty of knowing where a room really ends when mirrors continue to multiply it and, above all, the strange sensation of becoming part of a work while your own image begins to lose its importance among so many others. Having seen her work in different cities and at different points in my life, I have never been able to associate Kusama<\/em> solely with the dots or pumpkins that became her most popular images. There is something much harder to reproduce in a photograph, something connected to the physical experience of finding yourself inside an idea that seems to continue beyond the space it actually occupies.<\/p>\n

Her recent death, on 14 August at the age of 97, has made me think again about those encounters, and about how easily we begin to take for granted the presence of artists who have accompanied us for years. Kusama<\/em> had been part of the landscape of contemporary art for so long that it was easy to imagine she would always be there, working in her studio and adding new dots, nets, pumpkins and reflections to a universe that seemed as though it would never end. When the museum that bears her name announced her death, it noted that she had continued painting until her final days, making it impossible not to remember the answer she once gave when asked which talent she wished she could possess: to be able to paint for ever.<\/p>\n

She couldn’t, of course, although few artistic careers seem to have come so close to fulfilling that desire. For more than seven decades, she returned to the same obsessions and allowed them to grow with her until they overflowed the canvas, occupied entire rooms and ultimately became part of the visual imagination of millions of people. One dot joined another, then thousands more, as nets, mirrors and repetitions continued to spread until they formed a language we now recognise even before we read her name.<\/p>\n

Perhaps because I have stood inside some of those works, I now find it difficult to think of Kusama<\/em> solely in the past tense. The rooms in which our image multiplies until it disappears will remain, as will the nets whose repetition seems to escape the canvas and the pumpkins that have already become part of the visual memory of our time. We will continue to enter them, photograph them and probably discover things in them that Kusama<\/em> herself never imagined when she created them. After a lifetime spent trying to represent infinity, she left behind a body of work that will continue to grow without her.<\/p>\n

The museum that bears her name announced her death, it noted that she had continued painting until her final days.<\/h2>\n

(*) <\/strong>Cover image: Installation view of Yayoi Kusama\u2019s Love is Calling, 2013, on display as part of Yayoi Kusama at NGV International. Photo: Sean Fennessy.\u00a0\u00a9 YAYOI KUSAMA.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By Cecilia Camacho, founder of CC\/magazine and strategic consultant at CC\/studio In 1958, Yayoi Kusama arrived in New York at the age of 29, determined to make a place for herself in an art scene that was about to become the international centre of contemporary art. Born in Matsumoto, in Japan\u2019s Nagano Prefecture, before setting […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":83009,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5964,5916],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-105207","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-editorial-en","category-inspiration-en"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nInfinite Kusama<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"A journey through Yayoi Kusama\u2019s life and work, from Infinity Nets and Mirrored Rooms to the ideas of repetition, identity and infinity.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/ccmagazine.es\/en\/infinite-kusama\/\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta 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