Bill Viola, Pioneer of Video Art
The artist Bill Viola, master of immersive and introspective art experiences, has died, aged 73. Revisit Mastermind's 2021 interview with Kira Perov, Viola's partner in life and work.
Image by Bill Viola, Detail from The Dreamers, 2013. Courtesy of the artist.
Bill Viola, the influential American video artist, has died, age 73, according to an announcement on Instagram. The cause of death was Alzheimer’s Disease.
Born in 1951, Viola grew up with the rise of television. From the early 1970s, he seized on this new medium, making light, images, sound and time itself the tools of his creative practice. In doing so, Viola became a leading figure in the vanguard of artists legitimizing video art, expanding our notion of what art could be. His work has evolved according to his travels and spiritual quests via Zen and Eastern philosophies, but also according to technological advances that invigorate his work.
He met his partner Kira Perov in 1977, and together they formed an artistic duo. Perov assisted with almost all of his works from 1979; she is executive producer, organizes exhibitions, edits publications and directs the studio. In 2021, Perov told Matsermind about the experiences that shaped Viola, beginning with his exhibition, “Inner Journey,” then on at the Amos Rex museum in Helsinki, Finland.
In what ways does the “Inner Journey” exhibition echo an idea that runs through Bill Viola’s œuvre: that art is an immersive experience, a spiritual journey to be experienced rather than thought about?
KP Bill’s whole life has been a journey as a seeker of knowledge, an attempt to grasp some understanding of himself in the world around him. His works draw the viewer in, not by narrative or language, but by images that are often simple observations or metaphors for deeper contemplation. It is impossible to devise literal interpretations of a sequence of his images, so the viewer just needs to experience them and find meaning within themselves.
How did you first discover Bill’s work and eventually invite him to the “Video Spectrum” exhibition in Australia in 1977? What impression did it make on you? And how did this meeting mark the beginning of both your collaboration and your life together?
KP I invited Bill to show his work at La Trobe University in Melbourne in 1977. I was the director of cultural activities on campus, overseeing concerts, workshops, film screenings and exhibitions. A colleague who worked in the New Music department knew Bill, who was living in New York, and suggested that he would be a great addition to an exhibition we were planning on video art, “Video Spectrum.” Bill’s father worked for Pan Am, and so Bill could fly for free anywhere in the world. He came into my office on the first day, and immediately there was a connection. His work really spoke to me – it was as familiar as my dreams. A year later, I moved to New York to live with Bill.
How did Bill’s near-death experience as a child attract him to video art?
KP Bill had actually forgotten about his near-drowning experience. It was a question from a journalist. Seeing the frequent use of water in Bill’s work, he asked if he had nearly drowned, which prompted Bill to remember the event. This event did not attract him to video art – he was only six years old – but perhaps, in his own way, he had discovered a different world from the one in which we live and breathe. Water is an essential element for life on earth; our bodies are made up primarily of water. In art, water can be a metaphor for reflection, for dissolution (when the water is disturbed), for transfiguration, transformation, or the place in between life and death. These metaphors can be experienced in the exhibition at Amos Rex.
Can you discuss the meaning of his use of slow motion in his works?
KP Bill is known for the manipulation of time in his works – in particular, his use of slow motion. In the immersive experience of images and sound, visitors can leave the outside world behind. Once the image is slowed down, we enter a mystical world, one that allows time for revelations to gradually unfold. We can move into a state of self-reflection if we give ourselves enough time. By stretching the image (and often the sound as well), all details become visible – there is enough time to see the development of an emotion on a face, the subtleties of a movement, the play of air in the scene, water flowing gently or fire burning with intensity. The viewer is able to notice everything and maybe really see something clearly for the first time.
How did his experience with Nam June Paik inspire his work? In what ways did it help to shape Bill’s pioneering work in the field of video art in the early ’70s?
KP Bill first met Nam June Paik in Syracuse, New York, when he showed his work at the Everson Museum of Art. Bill was hired to be a technical preparator there under David Ross, the first video art curator “in the universe,” as he proclaims. Everyone was inspired by the Fluxus spirit of Nam June, who was also a very generous artist, helping younger artists and students with advice and technique. Bill spent long hours in the museum with Nam June, installing his complicated works, one of which is titled TV Garden (1974), featuring televisions facing up, placed among living plants. Bill could see that with this medium, anything is possible. Later, Nam June asked Bill to go to Guadalcanal in the South Pacific, site of terrible battles in World War II, to shoot some footage for Nam June’s piece Guadalcanal Requiem (1977/79).
In the ’80s, you spent 18 months in Japan studying traditional culture and avant-garde video techniques. How did Zen and Oriental philosophies inspire Bill’s work? And how did your encounter with the Zen master Daien Tanaka and his teachings resonate with both of you?
KP Bill was already reading about Zen when he was a student at Syracuse University, so Japan was a country that he wanted to visit. He received a one-year grant to live in Japan on a Japan-U.S. Friendship Commission program, which included myself. We had many opportunities to experience the traditional cultures that fascinated us, calligraphy, ink painting, the Noh theater, temple gardens and, of course, Zen Buddhism. We met Daien Tanaka through a shiatsu teacher who also had a Zen practice, and so we came every morning to sit in zazen. Tanaka-sensei came from time to time from his home in Nagoya. He was a free, enlightened spirit, who was also a prolific artist in calligraphy, painting and ceramics.
Our knowledge of Japanese was very limited, and his English was not much better, but somehow we were able to understand each other and spent many interesting times with him. When we invited him to see some of the work, he would say to Bill, while hitting him on the forehead, “Too much thinking!” He would also say, “One minute equals five days,” meaning that it mattered not how long it took to create something, as long as it was inspired, and inspiration could come at any moment. He delighted in many things and laughed a lot. We had some of our best “conversations” in Mister Donut, with coffee and donuts. We called them the “Mister Donut lectures on Zen Buddhism.”
All of this artwork is irrigated by existential and spiritual philosophical questions. How did your trip to Ladakh in India in 1982 to observe the art and religious rituals in Tibetan Buddhist monasteries inspire your work? What questions did it provoke in you both?
KP In Japan, we saw an exhibition of some of the interiors of the monasteries in Ladakh, all in life-sized photographs. A group of monks traveled for the first time out of their remote villages to perform a 10-day ceremony, creating a sand mandala. It was incredibly special. So, when Bill’s brother (who worked with the airlines) asked us to travel with him anywhere in the world, we suggested Ladakh. In 1982, this country had only just opened to tourism, so there were few foreigners in the main city of Leh – one Western “cafe” and one hotel, no hot water. We experienced another world: people living in what felt like medieval times – their way of life seemed to be unchanged with the arrival of vehicles and other modern inventions. The landscape was barren of trees; at 11,000 feet, the Himalayas towered much higher, so by October, it had begun to snow in the 13,000-foot passes. But inside the monasteries, it was a different story. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with hundreds of painted Buddhas, including many generations of important religious figures. Often, a statue of Buddha stood two to three stories high through the center of the building. Everything was painted in intense colors of red, yellow, blue, green, black, with butter lamps placed as offerings, with fruit and water. Thangkas were hanging on walls, and many religious objects were carefully placed on altars. These intense hallucinogenic colors were in stark contrast to the bleakness of the landscape outside. Only where the Indus River flowed was there irrigation for the fields of barley and some trees. As this was harvest time, the monks were mostly away from their monasteries, moving among the farmers and blessing their harvest.
We did not bring video equipment – it was not that kind of a trip – but Bill had an audio tape recorder to collect sounds of Leh and the people singing as they worked in the fields. It was an opportunity for us to experience another culture and way of life. We visited many of the monasteries in the area, including the largest, Thikse Monastery, from the mid-1400s. These strong experiences are folded into the process of art-making and are part of the layers that make up a piece.
Bill’s works appear as living paintings, very strong immersive experiences. You have traveled a lot together – what is your relationship to the landscape, and how did it feed your work? For example, what did you learn from your experiences of the desert, both in Chott El-Djerid in Tunisia and in the Mojave Desert in California?
KP Before we met, Bill and I had individually traveled to and lived in Europe; we had each been in the South Pacific – Bill to the Solomon Islands and myself to New Guinea and other islands. Together, we spent time in Australia, Fiji, Canada, the eastern and western states of the U.S., and five months living in the various deserts of the southwestern U.S. Tunisia in 1979 was quite intense; we were deliberately there to record mirages on the salt lake of Chott El-Djerid. We discovered that the heat and distance often distort your idea of what is illusion and what is reality. When using a telephoto lens, you are recording what the eye cannot see; it becomes an extension of your vision, and then it becomes an “inner” vision. All deserts produce the same effect. Your physical condition also alters your perception of what you are seeing. The desert traditionally has been a destination for seekers of knowledge and mystics. It can be a metaphor for emptying the mind so that transformation can take place. Its vast expanses can represent a lifetime.
The work has evolved in tandem with technology. Could you share an example of a more recent work in the “Inner Journey” exhibition that was made possible by technological advances?
KP One of the most revolutionary changes in technology came about with the advent of the flat panel screen in the late 1990s. All of the works in The Passions series (2000–2002) were inspired by these new vehicles for the moving image. Gone was the furniture box of the television; these screens can be used vertically (portrait mode) as well as horizontally. They can be mounted on a wall or fixed onto a surface, such as a shelf. Previously, Bill was making larger works that filled a gallery, and now he was making more intimate works, pieces that you could have in your home. In the Amos Rex exhibition “Inner Journey,” there are three such pieces, all from 2001, created when the screens became available.
Surrender is a vertical diptych: one vertical screen is placed above the other. In Four Hands, the small screens have been stripped down and mounted in a row on a shelf. Catherine’s Room uses five screens that have been fitted with metal frames, like photographs, and hung side by side on a wall. Many of the other works in the show use these screens; they are so versatile and are available in many different sizes.
The work, in exploring life and death, provokes questions about mortality. In creating these works, you and Bill are also creating a legacy that will exist after you are gone. Does either of you believe in immortality?
KP It is not a matter of belief but observations of the world we live in. Every year, nature has its cycles and regenerates miraculously in the spring. Our D.N.A. is passed on from one generation to the next, so until that fails – because we ourselves choose to destroy life – humanity will live on.
Is it fair to say that the existential journey of the human being, in all its complexity and spirituality, is the central exploration of Bill’s work?
KP That we exist in time and space is a fathomless concept. The medium of video is itself ephemeral; a video image cannot be seen or recorded without light and electricity (power). And when that shuts down, all you have left is the equipment. Our lives are as fragile and fleeting as the video image. To visit an exhibition of this work is to see the world differently. Visitors become quiet and introspective; they move slowly.
This feature was originally published in Mastermind 10 – buy all issues here.