their allure is how they grant us the ability to act as someone else, through the use of these ornate masks we call avatars.
Xan tells me that Billy liked to explore how our enthrallment to lavish fantasy worlds can have a pronounced impact on the real one. He sought to inspire moments when your biological self bleeds into your avatar, and vice versa.
She leads me to a small alcove set up as a public gallery space. While most of the “work” produced at GAME is intangible, they’ve filled the room with posters and exhibits illustrating demos, play-tests, and events. A corner of the space is dedicated to one of Billy’s previous offerings.
On a glass pedestal poses a hideous sculpture of Satan. Spiraling ram horns, cloven feet, barbed tail. Oddly, he appears as though he’s been burned by his own hellfire. His crimson skin shows large black and brown spots. The latex has bubbled in some places, melted all the way through in others. I look closer and find not a statue, but rather a devil costume arrayed on a neutral mannequin. He’s reaching forward with one of his clawed hands holding a charred wooden frame that houses a fifteen-inch video screen. A small brass nameplate reads HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE . The screen cycles shots of human faces contorted in horror.
Xan explains, “So one advantage of having this scary old building isthat it makes a jolly good venue for our annual haunted house fundraiser. We often invite visiting artists to do special ‘installations’ exploring fear.”
“That sounds scary.”
“No, they’re generally quite good. We only select those who don’t place themselves above delivering cheap thrills. Many of our residents hail from PiMP, and so in 2012 a couple of the new ones had met Billy. Just starting the program, wasn’t he? They knew he had a yen for high-concept nastiness, so why not see what he could do with a room?”
“I suppose you’re about to tell me.”
“On the contrary, many thought it a smashing success. At the debut, we were disappointed to find a cheesy mockery of those evangelist hell houses that dress some oaf in a Satan costume”—she gestures to the thing in front of us—“to frighten teens into preserving their virtue. We asked, ‘Is this really the best he can do?’ But just watch.”
She touches the screen a few times, and a video starts rolling.
In a dark room packed with people, the actor dressed as Satan stands on a slightly elevated stage. He makes a showy gesture to summon his dark powers. Behind him erupts a shower of sparks. Flames jet toward the ceiling. The devil turns and throws up his hands with malign ecstasy. But in doing so, his tail drags through one of the gas jets. His costume catches fire like rayon pajamas. Spasming with terror, he trips into the room’s painted backdrop, which ignites in a blazing sheet. The devil starts screaming. After an agonizing moment of indecision, so does the crowd. Two GAME staffers run from offstage to extinguish the actor, but by now the flames have ascended to the heavy curtains draped around the room, and the fire is clearly out of control.
The crowd surges to flee, and you can make out the accordion impact as they hit the exits. Then the cascading frenzy of panic when they realize: the doors are locked .
But those nearer the fire keep pressing forward. A petite woman goes down calling for help. This is obviously the moment at which Billy’s portraits of horror were taken. Someone being pulverized against the doors screams, “I can’t breathe!”
The video cuts to black.
“Ouch,” I say.
“Yeah. Anyone who’s been near the stage at a big music festival can tell you it’s not a pleasant feeling. But with an inferno at your back . . .”
Xan pauses, remembering the experience. “Billy had rigged that wall with sensors that tripped when a certain ‘safe’ amount of pressure was applied. At the critical moment, it just fell down like a drawbridge, and people got out without any
Xan tells me that Billy liked to explore how our enthrallment to lavish fantasy worlds can have a pronounced impact on the real one. He sought to inspire moments when your biological self bleeds into your avatar, and vice versa.
She leads me to a small alcove set up as a public gallery space. While most of the “work” produced at GAME is intangible, they’ve filled the room with posters and exhibits illustrating demos, play-tests, and events. A corner of the space is dedicated to one of Billy’s previous offerings.
On a glass pedestal poses a hideous sculpture of Satan. Spiraling ram horns, cloven feet, barbed tail. Oddly, he appears as though he’s been burned by his own hellfire. His crimson skin shows large black and brown spots. The latex has bubbled in some places, melted all the way through in others. I look closer and find not a statue, but rather a devil costume arrayed on a neutral mannequin. He’s reaching forward with one of his clawed hands holding a charred wooden frame that houses a fifteen-inch video screen. A small brass nameplate reads HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE . The screen cycles shots of human faces contorted in horror.
Xan explains, “So one advantage of having this scary old building isthat it makes a jolly good venue for our annual haunted house fundraiser. We often invite visiting artists to do special ‘installations’ exploring fear.”
“That sounds scary.”
“No, they’re generally quite good. We only select those who don’t place themselves above delivering cheap thrills. Many of our residents hail from PiMP, and so in 2012 a couple of the new ones had met Billy. Just starting the program, wasn’t he? They knew he had a yen for high-concept nastiness, so why not see what he could do with a room?”
“I suppose you’re about to tell me.”
“On the contrary, many thought it a smashing success. At the debut, we were disappointed to find a cheesy mockery of those evangelist hell houses that dress some oaf in a Satan costume”—she gestures to the thing in front of us—“to frighten teens into preserving their virtue. We asked, ‘Is this really the best he can do?’ But just watch.”
She touches the screen a few times, and a video starts rolling.
In a dark room packed with people, the actor dressed as Satan stands on a slightly elevated stage. He makes a showy gesture to summon his dark powers. Behind him erupts a shower of sparks. Flames jet toward the ceiling. The devil turns and throws up his hands with malign ecstasy. But in doing so, his tail drags through one of the gas jets. His costume catches fire like rayon pajamas. Spasming with terror, he trips into the room’s painted backdrop, which ignites in a blazing sheet. The devil starts screaming. After an agonizing moment of indecision, so does the crowd. Two GAME staffers run from offstage to extinguish the actor, but by now the flames have ascended to the heavy curtains draped around the room, and the fire is clearly out of control.
The crowd surges to flee, and you can make out the accordion impact as they hit the exits. Then the cascading frenzy of panic when they realize: the doors are locked .
But those nearer the fire keep pressing forward. A petite woman goes down calling for help. This is obviously the moment at which Billy’s portraits of horror were taken. Someone being pulverized against the doors screams, “I can’t breathe!”
The video cuts to black.
“Ouch,” I say.
“Yeah. Anyone who’s been near the stage at a big music festival can tell you it’s not a pleasant feeling. But with an inferno at your back . . .”
Xan pauses, remembering the experience. “Billy had rigged that wall with sensors that tripped when a certain ‘safe’ amount of pressure was applied. At the critical moment, it just fell down like a drawbridge, and people got out without any
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