chuckle.
Seriously? Who wrote this script?
The merry tone and personalized service were admittedly a charming touch, but Langdon could not imagine the amount of effort it must have taken to customize hundreds of headsets.
Thankfully, the voice fell silent now, as if it had exhausted its preprogrammed welcome dialogue.
Langdon glanced across the atrium at another enormous red banner suspended above the crowd.
EDMOND KIRSCH
TONIGHT WE MOVE FORWARD
What in the world is Edmond going to announce?
Langdon turned his eyes to the elevators, where a cluster of chatting guests included two famous founders of global Internet companies, a prominent Indian actor, and various other well-dressed VIPs whom Langdon sensed he probably should know but didn’t. Feeling both disinclined and ill-prepared to make small talk on the topics of social media and Bollywood, Langdon moved in the opposite direction, drifting toward a large piece of modern art that stood against the far wall.
The installation was nestled in a dark grotto and consisted of nine narrow conveyor belts that emerged from slits in the floor and raced upward, disappearing into slits in the ceiling. The piece resembled nine moving walkways running on a vertical plane. Each conveyor bore an illuminated message, which scrolled skyward.
I pray aloud … I smell you on my skin … I say your name.
As Langdon got closer, though, he realized that the moving bands were in fact stationary; the illusion of motion was created by a “skin” of tiny LED lights positioned on each vertical beam. The lights lit up in rapid succession to form words that materialized out of the floor, raced up the beam, and disappeared into the ceiling.
I’m crying hard … There was blood … No one told me.
Langdon moved in and around the vertical beams, taking it all in.
“This is a challenging piece,” the audio guide declared, returning suddenly. “It is called
Installation for Bilbao
and was created by conceptual artist Jenny Holzer. It consists of nine LED signboards, each forty feet tall, transmitting quotes in Basque, Spanish, and English—all relating to the horrors of AIDS and the pain endured by those left behind.”
Langdon had to admit, the effect was mesmerizing and somehow heartbreaking.
“Perhaps you’ve seen Jenny Holzer’s work before?”
Langdon felt hypnotized by the text coursing skyward.
I bury my head … I bury your head … I bury you.
“Mr. Langdon?” the voice in his head chimed. “Can you hear me? Is your headset working?”
Langdon was jolted from his thoughts. “I’m sorry—
what?
Hello?”
“Yes, hello,” the voice replied. “I believe we’ve already said our greetings? I’m just checking to see if you can hear me?”
“I … I’m sorry,” Langdon stammered, spinning away from the exhibit and looking out across the atrium. “I thought you were a
recording
! I didn’t realize I had a real person on the line.” Langdon pictured a cubicle farm manned by an army of curators armed with headsets and museum catalogs.
“No problem, sir. I’ll be your personal guide for the evening. Your headset has a microphone in it as well. This program is intended as an interactive experience in which you and I can have a dialogue about art.”
Langdon could now see that other guests were also speaking into their headsets. Even those who had come as couples appeared to have separated a bit, exchanging bemused looks as they carried on private conversations with their personal docents.
“
Every
guest here has a private guide?”
“Yes, sir. Tonight we are individually touring three hundred and eighteen guests.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Well, as you know, Edmond Kirsch is an avid fan of art and technology. He designed this system specifically for museums, in hopes of replacing group tours, which he despises. This way, every visitor can enjoy a private tour, move at his own pace, ask the question he might be embarrassed to ask in a group
Seriously? Who wrote this script?
The merry tone and personalized service were admittedly a charming touch, but Langdon could not imagine the amount of effort it must have taken to customize hundreds of headsets.
Thankfully, the voice fell silent now, as if it had exhausted its preprogrammed welcome dialogue.
Langdon glanced across the atrium at another enormous red banner suspended above the crowd.
EDMOND KIRSCH
TONIGHT WE MOVE FORWARD
What in the world is Edmond going to announce?
Langdon turned his eyes to the elevators, where a cluster of chatting guests included two famous founders of global Internet companies, a prominent Indian actor, and various other well-dressed VIPs whom Langdon sensed he probably should know but didn’t. Feeling both disinclined and ill-prepared to make small talk on the topics of social media and Bollywood, Langdon moved in the opposite direction, drifting toward a large piece of modern art that stood against the far wall.
The installation was nestled in a dark grotto and consisted of nine narrow conveyor belts that emerged from slits in the floor and raced upward, disappearing into slits in the ceiling. The piece resembled nine moving walkways running on a vertical plane. Each conveyor bore an illuminated message, which scrolled skyward.
I pray aloud … I smell you on my skin … I say your name.
As Langdon got closer, though, he realized that the moving bands were in fact stationary; the illusion of motion was created by a “skin” of tiny LED lights positioned on each vertical beam. The lights lit up in rapid succession to form words that materialized out of the floor, raced up the beam, and disappeared into the ceiling.
I’m crying hard … There was blood … No one told me.
Langdon moved in and around the vertical beams, taking it all in.
“This is a challenging piece,” the audio guide declared, returning suddenly. “It is called
Installation for Bilbao
and was created by conceptual artist Jenny Holzer. It consists of nine LED signboards, each forty feet tall, transmitting quotes in Basque, Spanish, and English—all relating to the horrors of AIDS and the pain endured by those left behind.”
Langdon had to admit, the effect was mesmerizing and somehow heartbreaking.
“Perhaps you’ve seen Jenny Holzer’s work before?”
Langdon felt hypnotized by the text coursing skyward.
I bury my head … I bury your head … I bury you.
“Mr. Langdon?” the voice in his head chimed. “Can you hear me? Is your headset working?”
Langdon was jolted from his thoughts. “I’m sorry—
what?
Hello?”
“Yes, hello,” the voice replied. “I believe we’ve already said our greetings? I’m just checking to see if you can hear me?”
“I … I’m sorry,” Langdon stammered, spinning away from the exhibit and looking out across the atrium. “I thought you were a
recording
! I didn’t realize I had a real person on the line.” Langdon pictured a cubicle farm manned by an army of curators armed with headsets and museum catalogs.
“No problem, sir. I’ll be your personal guide for the evening. Your headset has a microphone in it as well. This program is intended as an interactive experience in which you and I can have a dialogue about art.”
Langdon could now see that other guests were also speaking into their headsets. Even those who had come as couples appeared to have separated a bit, exchanging bemused looks as they carried on private conversations with their personal docents.
“
Every
guest here has a private guide?”
“Yes, sir. Tonight we are individually touring three hundred and eighteen guests.”
“That’s incredible.”
“Well, as you know, Edmond Kirsch is an avid fan of art and technology. He designed this system specifically for museums, in hopes of replacing group tours, which he despises. This way, every visitor can enjoy a private tour, move at his own pace, ask the question he might be embarrassed to ask in a group
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