There are exhibitions you visit, and there are those that quietly transform your perception of time. Bill Viola: The Space of Time, now on view at Almaty Museum of Arts, belongs firmly to the latter. Ahead of its official opening, we had the opportunity to experience the exhibition alongside Kira Perov – Director of Bill Viola Studio, Viola’s wife, and his longtime creative partner. Walking through the galleries with her made the experience especially personal. Through her reflections and stories, the exhibition unfolded on another level, offering not only a deeper understanding of the works themselves but also a rare glimpse into the mind of an artist whose practice explored life and death, memory, and the subtle ways time shapes our existence.
Even before arriving at the exhibition, it became clear that Almaty Museum of Arts is a place where every artwork is given the space to breathe.
One of the first works that left a lasting impression on me was Richard Serra’s Crossroads, displayed in a gallery of its own. Walking between its monumental curved steel walls felt almost like entering a canyon. It altered my sense of scale and direction, making me feel at once insignificant and acutely aware of my own presence.
Another installation that completely captivated me was Yayoi Kusama’s Love Is Calling. Having admired Kusama’s work for many years, encountering it here felt particularly special. Surrounded by infinite reflections and luminous bursts of colour, I briefly lost all sense of where my body ended and the space around me began. For a moment, it felt as though I had stepped beyond the boundaries of the everyday world.
Since opening its doors in 2025, Almaty Museum of Arts has emerged as one of Central Asia’s most ambitious cultural institutions, and Bill Viola: The Space of Time reflects that commitment to presenting world-class exhibitions. It marks the artist’s first exhibition in Central Asia. Bringing together 18 works created between 1977 and 2013, the exhibition traces Viola’s artistic journey from his early video experiments to his monumental multi-channel installations. More than its impressive scope, however, what makes the exhibition so compelling is the way it invites visitors to engage with the works at their own pace, in an atmosphere of quiet contemplation that allows Viola’s exploration of time, memory, and human experience to fully unfold.
Among the exhibition’s many memorable works was Heaven and Earth, one of the quietest yet most emotionally powerful pieces in the exhibition. Two monitors face one another: on one appears Viola’s mother, on the other his newborn son. They never met in life, yet here they seem to exist in the same suspended space, separated only by a narrow gap. There is something profoundly moving in this simple gesture. Birth and death, beginning and ending, are brought into silent dialogue, revealing not opposites but two inseparable parts of the same human experience. Without grand gestures or sentimentality, Viola creates a work of extraordinary emotional depth.
Another piece I found myself returning to was one of Viola’s self-portraits, centred on the rhythm of his own breathing. What lingered with me was the realisation that, even after the artist’s death, the work continues to carry a trace of his physical presence. The breath continues, steady and uninterrupted, and gradually the piece begins to feel less like a recording than a quiet continuation of life in another form. Of all the self-portraits I have encountered, this was among the most unforgettable. It felt deeply intimate, quietly unsettling, and remarkably alive.
After the guided tour, I returned to the exhibition alone, wanting to spend more time with the works in silence. Without conversation, the experience shifted entirely. Almost imperceptibly, you begin to slow down, and in that slowing something changes within you. Viola’s works demand a different kind of attention – one that is patient, contemplative, and free from distraction. The longer I remained in the galleries, the more it felt as though the images were no longer unfolding before my eyes, but somewhere within me. It was one of those rare experiences where stillness itself becomes transformative, allowing both the artwork and the viewer to reveal something previously unseen.
That sense of reflection stayed with me as I continued walking through the museum. The more time passed, the more it reveals itself. Perhaps the greatest impression the exhibition left on me was the reminder that some works of art are not meant to be consumed at a glance. They ask something far rarer of us – to pause, to be present, and to discover what only stillness can make visible.
