Far from its origins, Om has been reduced to a stereotype in the Western world and to a shallow symbol of cultural identification within the diaspora. Along with an exaggerated Indian accent and nerdy characterizations of South Asians, it has become an easy and uninspired way to make fun of over one billion people. Perhaps as a form of reclamation, diasporic youth get the symbol tattooed on their bodies. While both feel like misrepresentations, Camille Norment’s exhibition, Plexus, at the Dia in Chelsea brought me closer to what it might truly mean.
Sitting on the wooden planks of the second room of the exhibition, my senses were put at ease. I noted, “This is what I imagine the universe to sound like.” Sounds envelop the room and vibrated through the wood in many forms; impressions of field hollers, spirituals, and Tibetan Buddhist chants repeated with both harmony and dissonance. They urged me towards an experience of bodily awareness comparable to the effects of meditation. A potent remembrance that the body and the mind are connected in a way–that when paid attention to–draws out the innate knowledge that my being is more than mine, it is a world within a world.
Om was once a sound and symbol only known to me in reference, separated from its roots by the well-meaning and the ignorant. In this moment, it pierced through the surface and demanded to be felt rather than trivialized. It became more than just an idea or a history, more than just a sound or a symbol; the sound recordings reverberating through the space, wood, and observers materialized it. It took on a physical presence, at once familiar and jarring. It brought me closer to a reason for the cosmic cultural presence of Om and its subsequent misunderstanding.
The concept of Om first came into being in the Vedas, the ancient spiritual scriptures of Hinduism. The Vedas document a kind of wisdom about the universe. They mention no gods but address the relationship between the universe and the self–the way each one was created and done so interdependently. It is the ancient starting point of our ongoing conversation of who we are, this world that we somehow live in, and what it all might mean. It all begins with Om.
Om marks the moment of creation. The moment nothing turned into something, Om made itself present. The universe as we know it came into being and the creation of Om became inseparable from the creation of us. Call it a sound, a vibration, a frequency, or a wavelength–it exists before all else and exists along with us. Suitably so, it has become a core part of the practice of meditation and of the nation of India. It is inescapable in more ways than one.
It is no surprise then, that the sonic experience of Norment’s exhibition is consuming. It fills the body through each vibration of wood, each soundwave in my ear, and most effectively, each breath I take. The physicality of sounds becomes apparent as it starts to circulate through my body, changing the way air enters my lungs, enters my bloodstream, and pumps through my arteries. In giving myself away to a soundscape of spirituality, a kind of life flows through me. One that is pure, and as a result, unsettling.
At once eerie and angelic, beautiful and not, steady and peaceful stimulation is not what the human body is accustomed to. The usual highs and lows of my thought patterns and heart rate are more comfortable than this unusual calm that imposes itself onto me. I can only focus on peace for so long before I notice the sky in the windows of the roof, the people experiencing this exhibition alongside myself, and the people just outside without a clue what lies between them and the glass they walk by. It can only feel normal for so long before my mind starts to resist. My body knows what’s good for it, but my mind is prone to doubts. The melodies turn sour and what was once a beautiful representation of humanity becomes too human. An uncontrollable change of heart surfaces unforeseen ugliness. I cannot decide whether the Om tattoos look better or worse in the light.
