MONA is like a dark, mysterious woman of an indeterminable age who seduces you into her lair, then spits in your face while feeding you salted chocolate. She is as brash as she is mesmerizing; as uncomfortable as she is intriguing. The only thing to expect from her is unpredictability. Her only consistency is the steady click and subsequent splash of water droplets raining words from the ceiling, echoing throughout her interior.
Thought provocation is her bread and butter - she thrives on contrast. Hers is a world of tangible metaphor. Entering into her realm is to invoke a truce amongst the dreams and nightmares of your past, present, and future lives. An agreement who’s consequence is their commencement into a debaucherous romp in celebration of your powerful subconscious. Those who do not leave her with their head spinning, thirsting for more are those who wander through life robotic and superficial; never accessing the crevices of their mind or asking the unanswerable questions.
Here, time stands still, consciousness aches, and beauty is obsolete.
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