Disclosure: by happenstance, my housemate works for the company that built Candytopia. (Which I didn’t know until, like, a week before it was originally supposed to open. So take what follows as you will. Perhaps with some Swedish Fish.)
It was only then — while I was laying in the marshmallow pit, foam floofs cradling my back like an infinite number of firm, fist-sized pillows — that I finally understood the inherent value of an “selfie palace.”
The past few years have been witness to the rise of a new phenomenon: pop-up “museums” and installation galleries tailor-made for the Instagram generation. The focus of the art: creating the canvas for the ultimate selfie. Carefully crafted props and settings designed as perfect Instagram bait.
These galleries, which charge anywhere from $25 to far north of that (nothing in the three figures that I know of, yet) benefit from a social media feedback loop. The stream of pictures that flood Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook in the wake of their opening lead those who follow the restless neophiles seeking out each new urban curiosity to trace their steps—to take their own pictures, inspiring their friends. And on and on. Insta-World without end.
If you haven’t been to one of these spots then you’ve surely seen the pictures in your feeds. What at first seems novel can soon become monotonous, as the same photograph with a different human subject pops up over and over again. It’s as if the advent of a new pop-up turns a city’s social media feed into a collective family vacation album: all of us with the same six photos of Mickey Mouse and the Grand Canyon.
Which is all to say that I was deeply, deeply skeptical of what “selfie farms” bring to the culture as a whole and their relationship to immersive experiences. Could they be a solid platform for more robust narrative experiences? A gateway drug for normies who would start imagining “what if there was something more here?” Would the price of admission — in Candytopia’s case, 30 dollars — sour people on the idea of immersive experiences or set a respectable, sustainable floor for the overall industry?
So many questions, with only a tiny silver of experiential evidence to form an opinion on.
Last year I was able to attend both The 14th Factory and 29 Rooms here in Los Angeles. The former’s full focus wasn’t social media spamming, but it certainly benefitted from a few photogenic installations that led to long lines within the sprawl of the gallery. That project was certainly aware of the power of a clever installation to draw patrons in. The LA edition of 29 Rooms, on the other hand, was built from the ground up with its attendee’s social media feeds in mind. The project having existed long enough to become a platform for building brand awareness for companies like Toyota. The ratio of provocative art to branded content favoring the later.
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While I was impressed with the former, and occasionally surprised by the latter, both were missing something. Perhaps it’s because I toured one solo, and the other with just one other companion whose penchant for critical deconstruction matches or exceeds my own. Or maybe this sort of thing just isn’t my bag.
Which is what makes my time in Candytopia something of a personal revelation.
Happenstance on preview night led me to running into an acquaintance and his friend, who became my squad for the almost-hour we spent exploring the two-story location at Santa Monica Place. Having a #squad, even a small one, made the whole thing click like the shutter of a Canon. There was always someone to take a silly picture, or riff on a ridiculous idea. What started as the almost obligatory “oh, let’s get the photos for our feeds” became the much more loose “let’s screw around and make each other laugh.”
Candytopia is a playground, one that pulls off the very Pixar trick of being appealing to both kids and adults who are young at heart.
If you had told me that waiting what felt like ten minutes to take my turn in a giant marshmallow pool would be worth it before I walked through the steampunk portal into Candytopia, I would have told you I’m far too impatient for that. Yet you can see it on my face: a kind of pure bliss at being cushioned by all those foam pellets.
There’s something pure about Jackie Sorkin designs and ZH Productions’ assembly of the works. A celebration not just of sweetness and sugar highs — which I sooooo miss, Candytopia is hard when on a diet — but the pop delirium that is sugar’s artistic manifestation. Given the frantic, downtempo times we live in, it’s a playground that has its place.
Could there be a cohesive narrative layer? Sure. Would I have loved it if the fluorescent lights in the stairwell were off? Yeah. (Odds are we can pin that on the safety codes.) Am I looking forward to seeing even more ambitious versions of this kind of work?
You bet your sweet tooth.
Should you bring your friends to Candytopia?
Well, kid, how do you feel about candy?
Candytopia is now open at the Santa Monica Place Mall, 395 Broadway #142; Santa Monica, CA 90401. Tickets are $23- 30 (free for children under the age of four) and on sale through July 4.
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