On a recent weekday afternoon, I make a visit to Choi's installation. Lentjes buzzes me into "Dream House" and hands me a packet of information about the exhibition. "It's not the usual drone," she says with a smile.
In addition to all the smoke and the bright neon sign, I notice a large piece of paper covering the apartment's far wall and emitting multicolored light through thousands of pinprick holes -- a piece by Choi that looks sort of like a huge butterfly, or a bonfire. From a distance, the shape formed by the holes appears continuous, an illusion that Choi became interested in after she developed glaucoma.
Picking up a plush pillow from a stack near the door, I make my way into the apartment's front room, where two women sit with their legs crossed and eyes closed. Another couple is lying on the floor, holding hands, and gazing at the ceiling. Bass tones resonate through my body as I take a seat facing a video piece called "Rice," which consists of two swirly, pupil-shaped projections that seem to grow and shrink at once. Sometimes the movement of the video matches the "drone" and sometimes it doesn't. The projections appear to spiral inwards and dance outwards at once, a transfixing illusion. Most of the people who enter the space, about 10 in all, seem to intuitively orient themselves towards the blue lights. We form a semicircle on the carpet. It's easy to lose track of time.