The text below approaches the subject from a wider angle: who gets to imagine the future today? Do we even have the capacity for it? And why are artists essential to how we interpret the reality of today?

The future has become a tricky subject these days.

The digital realm seems overtaken by both human and agentic marketers who speak with unshaken confidence about what our lives will or should look like. Balancing somewhere between advice and prediction, these uncanny recommendations share one common denominator: they usually revolve around technology and, more often than not, encourage uncritical adoption of extractive, centralized systems that depend on our labour or access to our most personal thoughts and choices.

At the same time, in the sphere where visions of the future have traditionally been shaped—the creative sphere—there is a paradoxical slowdown. If you put aside larger-than-life multimedia shows and interactive experiences growing at breakneck speed, the scarcity of new imaginaries is difficult to ignore.

It has been a known problem since somewhere around the release of Minority Report, when sci-fi largely ceased to deliver scenarios that felt recognizably different from the world today. Serious reflection on the present—a requirement for any meaningful vision of the future—was slowly replaced by daily advice on “improving” and “future-proofing” our lives and careers.

And yet, in our collective imagination, we haven’t moved far beyond IKEA-meets-The Jetsons fantasies of fully automated households, rooftop gardens, and nano-enriched superfoods, even as our political and economic reality has drifted elsewhere.

Just ask Google.

Perhaps that’s why, lately, I’ve been enjoying so much Ian McEwan’s novels anchored in speculative futures (What We Can Know; Machines Like Me), as they care much less about the characteristics of the world or architectural setting in which they take place, and much more about how—and whether—the people inhabiting these worlds approach their existential, emotional, and very practical everyday dilemmas through a different paradigm than the one we know today (somehow, it brings to mind Alphaville, one of the oddest, and darkest, sci-fi films I can think of).

It is as if, between common and extraordinary events, McEwan introduces short, essential reflections on humanity’s perpetual entanglement in hubris, desire, vanity, and violence. These are the very mechanisms we cannot eradicate and that drive our collective decisions far more often than the ideals we like to write on our banners.

It was a religious yearning granted hope, it was the holy grail of science. Our ambitions ran high and low — for a creation myth made real, for a monstrous act of self-love. As soon as it was feasible, we had no choice but to follow our desires and hang the consequences.

In loftiest terms, we aimed to escape our mortality, confront or even replace the Godhead with a perfect self. More practically, we intended to devise an improved, more modern version of ourselves and exult in the joy of invention, the thrill of mastery. — Ian McEwan, Machines Like Me

I write this as the erratic US administration, supported by Big Tech, keeps bombing Iran, the war in Ukraine has been going on for over 1,500 days, and my social media-washed brain returns in response to yet another Instagram quote attributed, of course, to Albert Einstein: “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

The doctrine of infinite, unsupervised technological progress may be among the most deceptive ideas that has formed the bedrock of our global growth policy, in which a dozen executives largely decide both the present and the future of the entire planet. How is it that some still disagree with this simple statement, I honestly do not know.

As is often the case, in times marked by severe tension and chaos, we turn to artists for answers and hope. We expect original thoughts, painful criticism, and untamed anger that would express our worries and give us the courage to start thinking critically about reality and our place in it. If, like me, you’re not a religious person, art and philosophy remain the only paths capable of offering a holistic human perspective on both the present and what may follow. That’s some weight to carry.

The way art filters our digitally condensed, slop-polluted reality into images and narratives that bring meaning feels like a sip of oxygen after leaving a congested highway for a blooming spring forest. This effect is even stronger when the artist’s practice is rooted in or reflected by technologies that have become an unnegotiable part of our daily lives.

Contrary to what some may think, artists working with emerging media differ fundamentally from the aforementioned executives who control the world’s digital stack. Their primarily goal is to critically examine how reality and human perception evolve through technology, and to question the systems that shape our reasoning, free will, social rights, and political and economic status.

At its core, their practice is often about life, existential continuity, and ontological matter, which once conversed with the spiritual sphere, in times when spirituality carried a gravitas that has since migrated elsewhere, leaving the dialogue on the soul to psychotherapists and wellbeing gurus.

Art and Technology as a discipline has become popular not that long ago, partly through waves of digital art, partly through experimentation with bio art, algorithmic art, immersive installations, and extended reality. But it has existed for many decades, inspired by the ongoing conversation between artists, engineers, scientists, and philosophers.

You wouldn’t immediately say that its primary subject matter is human dignity. But in its finest examples Art and Technology speaks about care, responsibility, and fairness in how technologies are designed, made, and deployed. It has taken the first American pope who quotes Hannah Arendt and J. R. R. Tolkien in his widely cited encyclical to say what artists working with emerging technologies already embody: that preserving human dignity in its use and expansion should always be a priority.

Magnifica Humanitas

If only for that reason, Art and Technology may be the only real 21st-century avant-garde. A true, and perhaps last, avant-garde that defines reality in its most fundamental terms and reshapes it by challenging its core mechanics.

This movement is the most vibrant territory in the archipelago of contemporary art. It transforms fine arts, theatre, music, and even fashion, coming from a place of curiosity and care about both the individual and society. About the community and climate. About privacy and economic freedom. About human dignity that the neoliberal world has been slowly taking away from us bit by bit.

In a recent conversation with András Szántó, William Kentridge said that the biggest risk AI poses to artists is not ownership, but agency. Or, if we asked Hannah Arendt, she might say: our ability to think independently. Voluntarily delegating the intelligible process to a machine may save time, but it may also reshape one’s perception of creativity itself. In an era obsessed with the term, creativity has been reduced to a commodity measured largely by output.

Art – including algorithmic art that shouldn’t be confused with generative practices from media headlines – has never operated by that logic. Its power and unique status have always been rooted in human intellectual effort and our ability to navigate the absurdities of life with awe. The visual traces of this effort—from Gothic cathedrals to Holly Herndon and Matt Dryhurst’s The Call—have always been symbolic representations of a deeper process through which the public decoded meaning.

At a time when every image, sound, and story can be generated in less than half a minute, the role of the artist becomes more important than ever.

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In the past couple of months, following a series of talks I gave on immersive as a design methodology, I’ve been thinking about two things. The first is where immersive can take us by capitalising on its global popularity with almost all kinds of audiences. The second is how the success of immersive has grown at almost the same time as the rise of populism across Western societies, and what it could mean for its future.

In this note, I look at both of these questions and open a discussion on how to seriously imagine the further development of immersive as a socially valuable proposition.

The Popular Roots of Immersive

To put it simply: in their deep cores both immersive and populism can be seen as a consequence of the neoliberal proposition of the late 20th century — the idea that every person is a standalone, self-sufficient, and self-governing unit with the right to question everything and demand everything (what Foucault called the entrepreneurial subject compelled to manage itself as a personal enterprise).

The world is your oyster became the mantra of a neoliberal leaders that fueled the global machine of ever-growing consumption through catchphrases like you can be whatever you want and nothing should stop you from becoming who you want to be. What this meant in reality was a market calling for increased spending on products that became manifestations of fluid identity and on-demand social status.

It also came hand in hand with movements that powered by the growth of social media questioned the authority of science, education, and culture, eroding trust in established institutions and social expertise, and bringing to centre stage self-made experts, conspiracy theorists, and populist leaders who promised change from the old system, built on weak if not illusory foundations. The often catastrophic consequences of this process are visible today in the United States, in Hungary, in Russia, and in many other countries living under violent, incompetent, and often corrupt regimes.

But what does any of this have to do with immersive?

Actually, quite a lot. The emergence of immersive experiences, which has sparked so many debates across different industries and circles, was founded in my mind on two core elements:

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The show allowed us to explore where immersive art came from, speculating on how various artistic movements and gestures led to our audience-centred, viewer-first, as-it-you-were-there experience hungry culture.

We tried to establish a common ground for a conversation between legacy art organizations and emerging initiatives, which are all too often mistakenly seen as a threat to visual and performing culture as we know it.

Yet this may simply be an attempt to introduce a methodology that responds to audience expectations shaped by social and political changes in the 21st century.

All this - and so much more - started with the conversation I had with Charlotte Benedetti when we first discussed collaborating on what became Other Worlds Are Possible, a six-month experiment that not only brought a selection of hand-picked XR and screen-based digital works to Namur, but also attem…

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From January 2025 to January 2026, I spoke at Remix Summit, Immersive Arts, Acciona Next In, MUTEK, as well as private events like WXO and Futurespaces. These opportunities allowed me to have many peer-to-peer conversations around immersive art, moving beyond the usual narratives that focus either on large-scale popular destinations or niche experimental practices.

My goal was, and it still is, to bridge the gap between the emerging immersive community and the traditional art ecosystem. I continuously seek a shared denominator and a common language, helping us see one another as allies rather than opponents.

I’m sharing a transcript of my presentation, based on the most recent iteration at the Barbican Centre. I hope it serves as the beginning of a larger analysis that brings together learnings and observations on immersive art, situating them within the wider context of contemporary art history.

You can also watch a recording of my talk at Futurespaces if you have a spare hour.

Thank you so much, everyone. In the next few minutes, I’d like to share some thoughts on immersive as a creative methodology, and how many of us can work with and benefit from its various features.

I come originally from theatre. I’m a trained art historian, and for many years I worked as an audiovisual director and producer. I currently practice as a curator in immersive arts, which is still a fairly new phenomenon, and I’m continuing to explore what it really means.

I’ve been involved in interactive and immersive media for over a decade, and in the past six years I’ve curated a number of shows across Europe and the United States. During this time, I’ve met many phenomenal creators, from established artists like Shirin Neshat, to digital innovators like Marshmallow Laser Feast, Nancy Baker Cahill, and Liam Young, as well as emerging artists, directors, developers, and producers from diverse creative industries—filmmaking, fashion, theatre, and music.

It has been an incredibly enriching period, giving me privileged access through organizations generous enough to trust me and provide space to think about what we could build together. Let me show you a few visuals from some of the exhibitions I curated.

The guest program we introduced as Tribeca Festival at Mercer Labs, a commercial LBE venue in the heart of Manhattan, gave us seven weeks to present the work of independent immersive artists in a space of unprecedented scale. We commissioned eight new works and produced them in just over three months. What was truly terrific was watching how audiences behaved when the show opened. Hundreds of people came through every day—visitors from all over the world, of all ages and social backgrounds—and that’s what started my passion for thinking about audience engagement in immersive art.

For me, audience engagement is a way of talking about society today: who are the people around us, who are our neighbours, who are the tourists visiting town coming to see our work? It became an important moment of understanding that thinking about changes in the art industry is also thinking about what’s happening to us as a society, and where we are going together as a collective.

In my work as a curator, I try to first understand the public, and then build something specifically for the people I know will be coming to see it. Other Worlds Are Possible, a show that recently closed in Belgium, was commissioned by a digital art festival called KIKK. They run a permanent space in the charming city of Namur and asked me to curate an exhibition that would essentially introduce virtual reality and immersive art to a wider, more family-focused audience. This collaboration made me reflect on where immersive art actually comes from as a historical phenomenon.

Although I work with technology and am passionate about almost every aspect of it, I actually come from a fairly traditional background. My thesis in art history explored the optical devices Vermeer and his contemporaries used in oil paintings. I’m also a fourth-generation theater professional, because nobody in my family ever had a “real” job; we were either on stage or teaching others how to be on stage. Not without irony, this makes sense in a time when we’re constantly reminded that “all the world is a stage,” and anyone can enter it.

What is immersive art?

Does it even make a stand-alone category?

In a way, we still tend to think of immersive creation as a new and fairly niche phenomenon, visible mainly through a few commercial facets. But I actually believe immersive creation is everywhere. It has shaped and dominated our culture in so many ways that we often don’t even notice it anymore.

Immersive can exist on, or through, virtually any platform. It can be as big as the façade of a building or as small as the screen of your phone. It manifests itself in almost every part of our audiovisual lives: at work, in leisure, and in education. It takes countless forms and shapes—physical, digital, phygital—and is used equally by commercial entities and independent artists, appearing in shops as well as galleries. It can be an entertainment project, a healthcare product, or a retail tool.

Immersive has become popular because of the sense of presence it creates, or even embodiment, if you use XR or spatial audio, and the first-person perspective. You are not just a privileged viewer; you are the main protagonist of the work. Immersive is always about you.

People buy access—or secure it through other means—to various embodied identities and emotional states, guided by what designers call the “user journey” or “user experience.” These mechanisms may seem to belong to different realms, but they follow the same principle: Gwyneth Paltrow taking you to a branded Korean forest to promote eye cream, or Shirin Neshat placing a 360 camera inside a warehouse where an Iranian dissident is beaten by soldiers.

Even though these two offerings couldn’t be more different, in both cases you are placed inside a world, and your emotional journey is the experience.

In the arts and cultural sectors, immersive has become popular for an important reason.

We all know how challenging it is that much of contemporary culture can be highly exclusive, often intimidating, and hermetic. Immersive creation has started to address this problem. It is beginning to dissolve those barriers, making art experiences more accessible and open.

Not long ago, I joined strategist Andrés Szántó to discuss it in the context of the future of art and museums:

“It turns out, much to the chagrin of legacy institutions, that people of all ages love this kind of art. Where does this deep desire for all-enveloping experience come from?

The accessibility of the work draws people in. Immersive art behaves like theater, feels like a movie, and carries an operatic quality. It makes you feel like you’re experiencing something larger than yourself. You’re accepted as you are, and then the work unfolds around you.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you enter at the beginning or the middle of the experience, or whether you stay for five minutes or half an hour. In short, there’s a great deal of freedom in how the public is invited into these projects.” — It’s a Whole New Adventure, in The Future of the Art World

There’s something about the freedom of the experience that draws people to immersive. Audiences don’t need to understand why they’re there or prepare in any way; they feel safe and welcome by default.

It is this sense of openness and accessibility that makes audiences more enthusiastic about these works than we might normally expect.

What makes immersive interesting for creators?

The immediacy of how people experience what we would normally call storytelling is fascinating. Think of the two-minute augmented reality experience titled Mushroom Cloud by Nancy Baker Cahill, localized above the Hudson River in New York. The experience is very short, but the immediacy of it—how the mushroom cloud forms itself and then suddenly turns into a humming mycelial network—and of the messaging behind it is hard to compare to any narrative proposition.

Second, there is the social impact potential of immersive worlds. I’m not going to revisit the conversations we had some ten years ago about VR as an empathy machine, but we should not forget that embodied experiences create vaste opportunities for deeper emotional engagement.

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What will the visual art world look like in ten, twenty, or fifty years? In a time of accelerating disruption—fueled by economic shocks, shifting taste patterns, ideological polarization, climate change, and artificial intelligence, among other looming challenges—arts institutions and markets must transform. But how?

In The Future of the Art World: 38 Dialogues, New York–based cultural strategist András Szántó engages in conversations with artists, curators, academics, patrons, policymakers, gallerists, art-fair directors, and other key actors and intermediaries in the global art world to assess the changing playing field on which art institutions must operate.

Each of the dialogues explores a different facet of the art world—from new definitions of art and creativity to the outlooks for the art market and the art press, to links between art and wellness, to questions around globalization, philanthropy, restitution, cultural diplomacy, new business models and technologies. Some of the book’s conversations map evolving regional art scenes, including those in Africa, Southeast Asia, Latin America, and the Gulf, in addition to Europe and the U.S.

The contributors are: Refik Anadol, Albert-László Barabási, Ana Brzezińska, Larissa Buchholz, Diana Campbell, Joshua Citarella, Michael Connor, Jonathan Crockett, Marcello Dantas, Simon Denny, Ophelia Deroy, Souleymane Bachir Diagne, Léuli Eshrāghi, Thomas Girst, Holly Herndon & Matthew Dryhurst, Noah Horowitz, Isaac Julien, William Kentridge, Mona Khazindar, Agnieszka Kurant, José Kuri, Pablo León de la Barra, Sylvain Levy, Mia Locks, Carol Yinghua Lu, Miranda Massie, Atsuko Ninagawa, Tokini Peterside-Schwebig, Yoram Roth, Alain Servais, Marc Spiegler, Calum Sutton, Sheikha Al-Mayassa bint Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani, Fatoş Üstek, Olav Velthuis, Ge Wang, Mariët Westermann, and Dustin Yellin.

Below is an extended fragment of our conversation.

Get your copy here and do check out the previous two volumes — The Future of the Museum: 28 Dialogues and continued, in 2022, with Imagining the Future Museum: 21 Dialogues with Architects — I learned so much from both of them!

ANDRÁS SZÁNTÓ You’re one of the first curators of immersive art. How do you define these experiences?

ANA BRZEZIŃSKA I am still trying to understand if immersive art can be considered a stand-alone discipline. The term “immersive” can be applied to various types of human creativity—fine arts, film, theater, live performance. Brands use it to boost their retail “experiences.” This is the first time we have seen a new creative landscape evolving concurrently on both independent and commercial sides of the scene.

There’s no consensus yet on how to define immersive creation. For me, it has always been about the spatial, embodied experience of the audience member. You don’t start with a story or an object—an artwork independent of the audience. The experience always begins with people at the center of the concept. It cannot be immersive if it’s not primarily focused on the audience. The area I’m specifically interested in is digital immersive; however, many offerings in the current immersive landscape are physical, and non-digital.

By physical immersive, you mean something like Meow Wolf?

Meow Wolf, yes, as well as new entertainment venues and theme parks that are doubling down on the popularity of world-building practices, which immerse people inside a dynamic universe. Some are returning to collective, focused, non-digital experiences, often rooted in ancient forms of storytelling.

They bleed into participatory theater, essentially.

Theater and storytelling in the traditional sense, which have existed for hundreds of years and today remain closely tied to rural cultures. I spend a lot of time in the French countryside. During summer festivals in French villages, people still gather around le conteur—a person who tells stories or performs live in the market square. Bringing these forms into the contemporary ecosystem and calling it immersive art is not really new.

Either way, this is a different way of experiencing art than, say, coming across a framed piece of art in a gallery. But there is also something spatial in how I move around a sculpture. Is there something more to immersive than that?

There are two main types of immersive experiences. Some use the existing physical world, inside of which they build an environment, a digital universe. Others create a fully synthetic world that you can access through a VR or AR headset, either as an audience member or as a character. This practice largely began in the 1980s and 1990s.

With digital immersive art, you’re not looking at a selected fragment of reality—you inhabit the experience. Your presence can affect that experience. Without you, it wouldn’t exist in the same way. That’s a very Einstein-like way to think about it: the idea that an experience only truly exists when you’re there to witness it.

Just for the record here, can you give me some paradigmatic examples?

The best-known is the practice of the Japanese collective teamLab. They’ve had tremendous commercial success that just keeps growing. They work primarily with video mapping, but they also design site-specific experiences, bringing interactive digital imagery into physical public spaces. What’s fascinating is that they also create independent works, in which they use the same techniques of world-building and spatial design found in their otherworldly floral experiences to produce more niche works that introduce a dark and heavy social critique of the contemporary world.

In their 2022 work The World of Irreversible Change, teamLab built a digital universe representing a village. It’s a six-channel interactive video inspired by byōbu, Japanese folding screens, in which you can see in real time how the life of that village unfolds during the day. In the artwork, time passes exactly as it does where you are. You can also interact with the world; however, you are warned that the moment you interfere, you will disrupt the world, and it will fall into conflict. When you touch the screen, the villagers start to fight. They start fires. The panel text warns, “Do not touch the work. If you interfere with the world, you will destroy it. There’s no going back.” And yet people do it, and they are surprised to learn that there’s no going back from the destruction they’ve caused.

That’s certainly not going to happen when you stand in front of a Brueghel painting.

Thank goodness.

When did this kind of art burst into the art world consciousness? And how has it evolved?

The roots of immersive art lie in theater and film, much like those of visual art before the internet era. Immersive art feeds on all these genealogies—from Punchdrunk’s immersive theater performances to the opening of the Sphere in Las Vegas in 2023 with Marco Brambilla’s lavish AI-generated collage, King Size.

Overall, I see two key inflection points. In the 1990s, artists began exploring virtual reality and spatial-design tools. In 1993, the Guggenheim organized an exhibition titled Virtual Reality: An Emerging Medium, featuring Jenny Holzer and other artists fascinated by the potential of the medium. In the early 2000s, VR pioneers like Nonny de la Peña and Chris Milk began exploring virtual reality as a medium for storytelling. But the real boom for large-scale immersive came after the Covid-19 pandemic. When the lockdown ended, there was a sense of urgency to return to certain social rituals. At the same time, a massive influx of digital awareness happened during the lockdown, as people adopted digital technologies in their everyday lives. We left the pandemic with a different set of skills and social expectations. Suddenly, immersive venues began opening around the world. That need for a new collective experience was a huge catalyst for the current popularity of immersive media.

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Following an earlier introduction that outlines the context of the so-called immersive renaissance and the growing popularity of collective spatial experiences, here’s an overview of what I call the three pillars of a stand-alone immersive industry: audience development, new creative formats, and language and history.

This final aspect is especially important if we want to equip the next generation of makers and professionals with key learnings and insights from the past decades of our practice, and engage in an actual dialogue with established art sectors.

Examining this triad from various perspectives is also important for developing effective, relevant, and forward-looking programming and collaboration strategies for cultural institutions and venues. This knowledge is vital for funders, policymakers, and content producers who determine where to invest their resources, time, and attention.

Immersive Audience 

Audience development’ or ‘audience design’ might sound like bulletproof methods for engineering who discovers our work and how they do so. However, before we propose techniques to attract new audiences to exhibition spaces (and make sure they return), it’s essential to understand the actual needs and expectations of the people we address our offerings to. Established organizations like museums and theaters often have solid information about their public and their behaviors. Yet, even with years of experience, exploring how people's cultural habits shift due to various factors is crucial for bringing in new audiences and introducing new formats. 

Recently, during the Geneva Film Festival Chris Salter from the Immersive Arts Space in Zurich raised a vital question of whether and how we have changed during the pandemic; we meaning audiences but also more broadly, we as a society. My first answer was to immediately say: yes, we have changed beyond our understanding but we’ve never, or at least I’m not aware we have, discussed it in detail in order to acknowledge what actually happened. On many levels I feel that this is a huge knowledge gap that we tend to ignore in understanding what the current cultural and societal expectations are. That’s a major side note to the discussion in this text; it demands a whole separate conversation, and it’s high time we had it.

For young organizations and venues just starting out, it's critical to understand and strategize how best to define and get to know their audience—who they are targeting and how to build lasting relationships with them. They should also be prepared for the possibility that the current immersive hype wave may one day stabilize at a lower level than what we see today.

After learning about a record attendance at the 2024 Tribeca Immersive exhibition at Mercer Labs, which was the first event presenting a curated set of independent immersive works in a commercial venue, I noted: 

“Designing immersive art shows for large-scale digital venues requires a whole new approach on almost every level. This includes how you select the artists, how you work with them on the actual experience, how you design and use the physical space, and what you offer your audiences before and after the show. On a more detailed level, none of these elements feels like working in a traditional cultural venue, let alone a festival.

Today I know that a new exhibition model is a necessity because what happens in an immersive space is a completely different experience than what you would have in a theater, opera, art gallery, museum, or concert hall. The nature of the audience journey is somewhat similar to participatory theater but with much less friction and interaction demand on the part of the viewer. The collective character of the journey at spaces like Mercer Labs is very powerful, at once ancient and somewhat novel, with added value in its openness, accessibility, and lack of prerequisite professional preparation that often intimidates people from entering new cultural and technological topoi.

While today it might seem obvious or easy to curate for those emerging zero-spaces, in the long run, it may become an actual challenge. In my opinion, the openness and accessibility of immersive venues only means that as a curator you need to work much harder to make the experience meaningful and worthwhile because your actual audience is, well, everyone.”

I should acknowledge that ”audiences and publics” are neither neutral nor homogenous entities. They are shaped by specific socio-economic, cultural, and political contexts, often intertwined with the funding structures and institutional objectives of museums and cultural organizations.

While immersive experiences may seem to appeal to “the masses,” it is important to recognize the nuances in how different demographics are targeted or engaged. I would love to learn more on how institutions navigate the construction of specific publics for immersive content and the potential power dynamics embedded within this process. 

From a broader perspective, the conversation about 'immersive audience development' is fundamentally a conversation about the state of modern society

(which occurred to me during an interview I was invited to by the Barbican Centre Immersive research team, whose task was to position their program on the cultural map. Unlike commercial venues, Barbican, as a state-supported legacy institution, has a mission and a duty towards their public and the British taxpayers and therefore their general approach to audience development and programming strategy must be different from the one of a private-owned business).

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Before we develop effective business models and distribution strategies, studying those areas is crucial not only for enhancing the quality of artworks and increasing audience interest in experiences beyond the initial wave of popular events or commercial activations, but also for deepening critical discussions on existing projects and, ultimately, for building the history of what we want to call Immersive Art.

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I might come from a family with a musical background, have worked in theater, and opera, and spent hours fighting my mom about different Chopin sonata interpretations (Polish folks and Chopin Competition are like French people and Tour de France), but I consider myself an audio amateur. Especially since music and sound are not the same; they seem to activate different parts of our minds and audio reactive parts of our bodily and emotional systems.

Luckily, the best thing about continuous learning is that one day you land on an island you’ve seen on your map so many times you think you know everything about it. Then you realize you’ve just discovered a completely new unexpected territory. You feel grateful and humbled, excited and invigorated, and a little …

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