For a class in which I am learning about literary depictions of war and violence, I have been watching clips from Iraqi American artist Wafaa Bilal’s interactive installation, Domestic Tension. In 2007, after losing both his brother and father to war-related violence in Iraq and in response to the act of shooting missiles remotely, Bilal confined himself to a small space in a Chicago art gallery. For a month, he lived in a room consisting of a bed, a computer, a table, a lamp, a plant, and a robotic paintball gun that internet users could control, aim and shoot at all hours of the day. Over 60,000 people from 130 countries shot at him as he slept, worked, read, and maintained his space. He was never warned of a single shot.
As the experiment transpired, daily video updates captured a fatigued, tense, and lonely Bilal. He vomits from anxiety and develops abdominal pain. He experiences bouts of depression. He gains 15 pounds, eating uncontrollably to cope with his circumstances. He sleeps erratically – sometimes going 48 hours without rest.
He tries to control his environment yet, no matter how often he cleans his space, the shrapnel left from the shattered paintballs cut his fingers and trails of yellow paint spread across the floor, leaving precarious puddles around his bed and computer. The walls begin to degrade from impact and even the lone plant decorating his room is destroyed from multiple shots. Self-portraits taped on a glass shield are particularly popular targets.
By Day 26, a curious thing happens: a few online followers have figured out that by continuously holding the gun to the far left, other users become incapable of aiming and shooting the gun at Bilal – a so-called “virtual human shield.” Bilal chooses not to intervene, allowing for a natural evolution of events – the human shield versus the shooters – to unfold. Later on Day 26, a woman stops by the studio housing Bilal’s installation to drop off new socks after noticing that he had wore a mismatched pair to bed. On Day 27, a couple sends him a plant to replace the dead one. Overwhelmed by the gesture, he tearfully embraces the plant, vowing, “I’m not going to let anyone shoot it.”
By Day 30, energetic to be nearing the end, Bilal begins to reflect on the process of being shot by remote users nearly every hour for 31 consecutive days while developing a fiercely loyal following of cyber humanitarians. His reflections are about the human condition, yet they are also powerfully about art as well:
“That’s what art is supposed to do. It’s supposed to inform. It’s supposed to agitate. And it’s supposed to be a part of life. I have no resentment to the people who shot. It’s an encounter; it’s not a didactic piece. It’s an open narrative piece. One we can all impose our own narrative on.”