Time and Space Machine
Two months ago, I did something I hadn’t done in nearly twenty years: I picked up a summer job. From June to mid-August, I was a virtual reality attendant for a temporary museum exhibit, assisting patrons in wearing a headset that visually transported them to a 1950s grocery store.
Based on a now-defunct market within an LA neighborhood, the installation is a tribute to the artist’s grandfather. Despite being surrounded by gallery patrons, viewers stand in an empty marketspace, surrounded by shelves of vintage-labeled groceries and home goods, family portraits and other trinkets nestled amongst the shelving. Sunlight streams through the exhibit windows, specks of dust float lazily from the ceiling, and an ethereal, almost haunting, soundtrack loops in the background.
For me, this summer job created emotional connections that will last for a while. Being the operator of this experience meant meeting various visitors who entered through the exhibit doors: children who hogged the headset for entirely too long and walked through store furniture; couples on dates who took turns holding one another's' hats, sunglasses, and purses; families spending time together and excitedly speaking over each other; art fans and inspired artists; older individuals who hesitantly shared they’d never done VR before and seemed to slide back into their own memories, calling out product names on the shelves, reflective of their childhood and of times gone by, nostalgic and sometimes leaving teary-eyed.
It was interesting after patrons had removed the headset, where people who initially seemed serious or anxious often became relaxed, reflective, chatty, as if we had been in the store together. Though I sometimes dragged my feet heading to work, it was always rewarding to hear the stories and witness the interactions of those I came into contact with.
When there was a lapse in gallery visitors, I would use the downtime to work on school assignments, wipe down the technology and lay out pamphlets, or check out other pieces within the gallery. Occasionally, I would slip on the headset and walk into the exhibit myself, seeking out details I had missed on previous trips.
Standing in the virtual store by myself enough times made me start to think about nostalgia’s double-edged sword. While I think it’s good to embrace the past and remember what was, I also think of what it might mean to get so caught up in “the good old days” that I might neglect to see what was directly in front of me (kind of like the time the machine wasn’t properly calibrated and a patron nearly walked into a wall). In all seriousness though, I came to understand the criticality necessary when entering a space of nostalgia, albeit a virtual one. It made me think about the tension that we so closely hold when embracing the memories of days gone by, and how precarious it can be to get caught up in moments that might currently or historically have created exclusions and harm for certain groups more than others.
The experience also reminds me that despite the technology involved in developing this exhibit, it is still in itself a recreation of the past, a tribute to something that no longer physically exists. To me, it also serves as a reminder that time is precious, that the people I hold near and dear to me must be cherished, and that life can simultaneously feel too slow but move too fast at the same time.
When I would finish these solo trips into the store, I would often remove the headset and look back at the empty room. The feeling often evoked a sense of bittersweet sadness similar to one of leaving a beloved place, knowing I’d never return to that same time and space ever again.
And just as nothing in life lasts forever, I also gave in my two-week notice as the virtual operator, moving onto a new afternoon shift for the fall as I prepare to complete my doctoral degree. Though I’m not sure what next summer might hold workwise, I am grateful that this job gave me the chance to embrace the past and consider different perspectives through alternative lenses.
