The obsession that saved the world: Yayoi kusama and art as exorcism

What fascinates about this Japanese artist—now 94 years old and still working in her studio at the psychiatric hospital where she has lived since 1977—is this rare alchemy between suffering and creation. Her work was not born from an aesthetic theory, but from a vital necessity: to cover the world with patterns to make it bearable. Her Infinity Mirror Rooms, those spaces where reflections multiply endlessly, are not mere selfie attractions—they are machines for dissolving anxiety. Her Accumulation Sculptures, those armchairs and sofas bristling with fabric phalluses, are not just Pop Art, but a desperate attempt to domesticate horror. And her 1960s performances, where naked bodies covered in dots faced stunned crowds, were not just happenings—they were collective exorcism rituals.

To dive into Kusama’s universe is to understand how art can become a weapon against madness. But it is also to discover an artist who, despite hallucinations, poverty, and the scorn of institutions, managed to transform her demons into a revolutionary aesthetic. An aesthetic that today makes her the most popular living artist in the world—and perhaps the only one whose works are both conceptual masterpieces and viral phenomena.

01The day New York discovered infinity

In 1957, a young Japanese woman arrived in New York with a suitcase full of drawings and fifty dollars in her pocket. Her name was Yayoi Kusama, she was 28 years old, and she had just left a Japan where her art, deemed too strange, had no place. In her tiny apartment on 14th Street, she set to work with a frenzy bordering on obsession. For months, she painted enormous canvases, covered in thousands of tiny white arcs that seemed to vibrate on the surface. These Infinity Nets, as she would later call them, were not abstract compositions—they were attempts to reproduce the hallucinations that had haunted her since childhood.

One evening in 1959, she invited a few artist friends to see her latest creation. Among them were Donald Judd, then an art critic for Arts Magazine, and a young man named Andy Warhol. What they discovered left them speechless: a room entirely lined with mirrors, at the center of which sat a mass of soft, phallic forms. Kusama had transformed her studio into a space where the viewer found themselves surrounded by their own reflection, multiplied infinitely. Infinity Mirror Room – Phalli’s Field was born. Judd, impressed, would later write that these paintings were "the best of the decade." Warhol, for his part, left with an idea that would make him famous: what if art became an immersive experience?

Yet behind this recognition lay a darker reality. Kusama worked sixteen hours a day, often without eating, in an unheated apartment. Her hands froze in winter, but she kept painting, as if her life depended on it. Because for her, it did. Each canvas was a battle against the voices telling her to kill herself. Each repeated pattern was a way to regain control. And each exhibition was a victory against oblivion.

02The phalluses that wanted to smother the world

In the 1960s, Kusama embarked on a series that would shock New York: the Accumulation Sculptures. Chairs, sofas, shoes, suitcases—all covered in hundreds of soft, phallic protrusions, hand-sewn from pink or yellow fabric. At first glance, one might see a parody of Claes Oldenburg’s soft sculptures or a variation on the emerging Pop Art. But for Kusama, these works had a far more personal meaning.

As a child, her mother sent her to spy on her father during his infidelities. What she saw—those entwined bodies, those obscene shapes—traumatized her forever. The phalluses in her sculptures are not sexual symbols, but manifestations of her terror. By multiplying them, by making them ridiculous, she tried to defuse them. "I wanted to cover the world with penises so I wouldn’t be afraid of them anymore," she would later say. A therapy through absurdity, where horror becomes grotesque, and the grotesque, liberating.

These works, now exhibited at MoMA and Tate Modern, were first met with contempt. Male critics saw them as mere "feminine decorations," or even dismissed them as "hysterical." Yet Kusama persevered. In 1962, she organized an exhibition where she invited the public to sit on her phallic chairs. Some visitors laughed, others were uncomfortable. No one remained indifferent. And that was precisely what she sought: to force the world to confront what terrified her.

03When dots become a religion

If the Accumulation Sculptures were her way of fighting fear, polka dots became her philosophy. For Kusama, these dots are not mere decorative motifs—they are "seeds of the universe," elementary particles that compose all things. By covering objects, bodies, even entire buildings with dots, she does not just create works of art: she practices a form of cosmic ritual.

This obsession reached its peak in The Obliteration Room, an interactive installation where visitors are invited to stick colored dots on the walls, floor, and furniture of an entirely white room. Over the days, the space transforms into an explosion of color, as if reality itself were gradually being covered by a new layer of meaning. What begins as an artistic performance becomes a metaphor for creation: each person participates in the work, and the work, in turn, transforms those who touch it.

But behind this apparent lightness lies a darker vision. For Kusama, dots are also a way to disappear. "I drown in the ocean of dots," she writes in her autobiography. "I become part of the art." This idea of self-obliteration—the erasure of the self within the work—is at the heart of her approach. In a world that seems hostile, art becomes a refuge, but also a way to dissolve oneself in order to be reborn.

04The woman who sold mirrors to infinity

In 1966, Kusama went to Venice for the Biennale. Officially, she was not invited. But that did not stop her from installing, in the exhibition gardens, a work that would mark art history: Narcissus Garden. Fifteen hundred plastic mirror balls, arranged on the grass like a field of artificial flowers. Visitors leaned in, saw themselves reflected infinitely, and suddenly, the work came to life. Kusama, dressed in a golden kimono, began selling the balls for two dollars each. "Your narcissism for sale," she proclaimed.

The organizers, furious, ordered her to remove everything. She refused. For three days, she continued selling her mirrors, turning the Biennale into a subversive performance. This gesture, both artistic and commercial, sums up her entire career: Kusama is an artist who defies institutions, but also a shrewd businesswoman. Today, her Infinity Mirror Rooms attract millions of visitors, and her collaborations with Louis Vuitton have made her a fashion icon. Yet she has never renounced her rebellious side.

This duality is at the core of her genius. On one hand, she creates works of hypnotic beauty that speak to the collective unconscious. On the other, she transforms these works into accessible, almost popular experiences. Her Infinity Mirror Rooms are not reserved for an elite: they are designed so that anyone can lose themselves in them, if only for a few seconds. And perhaps that is the secret of her success: Kusama does not make art for museums. She makes art to save lives.

05The madwoman who became a legend

In 1973, after fifteen years of struggle in New York, Kusama returned to Japan. Exhausted, depressed, she attempted suicide. Then, in 1977, she made a radical decision: she voluntarily moved into a psychiatric hospital. "I choose to live here because it’s the place where I feel safest," she explains. For years, the art world forgot about her. But she kept working. Every morning, she went to her studio, located within the hospital grounds, and painted until evening.

It was there, in that white room with bare walls, that she would create some of her most famous works. The Infinity Mirror Rooms of the 2000s, with their LED lights and perfect mirrors, were born in this place where madness and creation are one. And it was also there that she wrote her novels and poems, exploring the same themes as in her paintings: obsession, fear, the dissolution of the self.

Today, Kusama is a legend. Her exhibitions break attendance records, her works sell for millions of dollars, and celebrities like Lady Gaga and Björk draw inspiration from her style. Yet she remains that fragile woman, sitting in her hospital studio, surrounded by her brushes and hallucinations. "If it weren’t for art, I would have killed myself long ago," she confides. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of her work: in a world desperately seeking answers, art is not a luxury. It is a matter of survival.