Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience is, according to its website, ‘a 360º digital art exhibition in London that invites you to step into the universe of the Dutch genius, Vincent van Gogh.’ Years in fringe theatre have taught me to be leery of ‘immersive experiences.’ But everyone said, ‘It’s amazing. It’s like stepping into a painting!’ Sounds delightful. So I went, with my partner pushing me in my wheelchair.

I was immersed in:

a closet
embarrassment
the toilet*.

He lived in a very swirly area of France.

Before I booked, I checked the website. The exhibit was billed as mostly accessible. Not completely accessible, the website explained, because it’s in a Grade 2 listed building (a building so old the government says you’re not allowed to change it, not even to put an elevator in). When I got my wheelchair, historic buildings became mainly off-limits. But I get it. I don’t want people to rip apart castles, demolishing important artifacts, just so I can stick my little tourist nose in. Save that history; it’s bigger than me.

So I wasn’t annoyed the exhibit was billed as not completely accessible. Au contraire: Thank you, website, for telling me. The website said the galleries span several floors. It said all but the top floor are wheelchair accessible. Cheers, website! Sucks about the top floor, but now I know what to expect. I buy tickets, content that my experience will be mostly immersive.

I wasn’t daunted when I saw the small step up to the ticket area. I’ve been to enough old places in my wheelchair to know the drill. And sure enough, when the staff lady sees me coming, she dashes off and returns with a portable ramp. These ramps are like giant, metal briefcases. Staff Lady unfolds it, lies it over the step, and I roll up it. Cool. Bring on the ramps. Bring on the art.

There are a few guests ahead of me and my partner. Staff Lady scans their tickets and waves them through a doorway, up another, taller step. I hold out my ticket, expecting her to whip out another, larger ramp. Instead, she walks to a corner of the lobby and pulls back a make-shift curtain. Behind the curtain are some chairs and a folding table. Coats hang on a peg.

Nah, I’ll keep my coat on, thanks.

Oh.

This space is for me.

It’s the ‘accessible’ space.

I’m supposed to stay here.

I look around. There’s a rack where staff have piled broken walkie-talkies and lost umbrellas. I can feel Partner fuming beside me. I’m upset too, but I don’t want to be That Angry Disabled Woman. ‘I can’t go into the actual exhibit?’ I ask. Staff Lady gets Manager. Manager smiles but shifts her feet as she tells me they’ve ‘tried to replicate the exhibit experience here.’

In the temporary coatroom.

The magic behind the curtain

Manager explains the exhibit has three parts. Part 1 is a VR experience, where you put on a headset that tricks your brain into thinking you are strolling around Van Gogh’s house and garden. Manager points out that the guests upstairs are also just sitting while they do the VR bit, so, hey, what’s the difference if I’m up there or down here? Manager shuts the curtain behind her. Partner and I strap on our headsets.

We start in that room Van Gogh painted. You look around at that little chair and that bed. Then you exit the bedroom and ‘go’ downstairs. This is when I yelped and flailed for something to grab. Turns out VR is terrifying when you’re in a wheelchair. As I ‘moved’ across Van Gogh’s kitchen, my mind convinced my body I was rolling across the coat room. I was sure my wheelchair’s brake must have come loose. I braced to crash into the wall and ripped off my headset. I was in the same spot, still next to Partner. If brains could vomit, mine would have.

‘And this is a picture of my bedroom.’ - Vincent

While Partner oooed and ahhed his way across the virtual wheat fields of Arles, I turned to the second part of the exhibit. For everyone else, this was walking through a gallery of projected images and sounds, giving an illusion of strolling through Van Gogh’s paintings. For me, this was a folder.

In the folder, laminated A4 pages described the magical experience guests were immersed in upstairs while I was immersed in the slightly less magical coat room downstairs.

Staff Lady pops in, and we explain, again, how the website promised we could access the gallery floors, excepting the top one. ‘We do have a stair lift thing,’ says Staff Lady. ‘But some guests found it unsettling.’ I tell her I’m cool with it; I’ve ridden stair lifts before. Staff Lady says ‘I mean, we have it, but it’s a hassle to set up...’ I wait for the But we can if you want! Instead, she hands me a colouring page and a pack of crayons. She shuts the curtain behind her.

I didn’t cry. But for a second, sat there with four crayons, I thought I might. I felt infantilised, brushed aside. An unpleasant nuisance, hidden behind a wonky curtain. I felt like shit. ‘What do you want to do?’ Partner asked gently. I threw down the crayons. ‘I don’t know. Not sit in a coat closet.’

We skip to the last part of the exhibit because it’s the only bit on the ground floor. ‘Totally accessible,’ the Manager assured us. We go into a big room. Projected Van Gogh paintings slide over the walls, floor, ceiling. Couples and families sprawl and cuddle on floor mats. Starry Night pans across their silent faces. It’s relaxing, apparently. I stare at a carpet fibre and try not to vomit. The out of focus projections are making me nauseous. ‘Are you nauseous?’ Partner whispers. ‘No,’ I whisper. Partner has already missed most of the exhibit because of me. I want him to enjoy the Big Room. I shut my eyes. I’ll be fine. It’ll be over soon. How long can people watch blurry quotes drift across a wall?

the Big Room

When show finally ends, I have to pee. Partner wheels me across the starry floor (the looped show has begun again) to a flap in the wall. We know the toilets are here, because every few moments during the show, a blast of the automatic hand drier punctured the serene musicscape.

Immediately behind the flap, my wheelchair gets stuck. It can’t turn the sharp corner in the tiny hallway leading to the toilet. I rock my chair side to side, trying to dislodge it. Can’t go forward, can’t go back. A queue* forms behind us. Partner has to lift the chair, with my fat ass and full bladder in it, to squeeze it through the toilet door.

Stuck in the toilet doorway

There’s a narrow row of cubicles*, none of them big enough for a wheelchair. Partner pushes me up the row, alongside a cubical door. I grab the door handle, pull myself out of the chair, and hobble into the cubicle. Partner can’t help me because he’s trapped behind my chair. My wheelchair is the exact width of the row, blocking all traffic in all directions. Blocking the doors of neighbouring cubicles. People stuck inside are knocking, demanding to be let out.

If I sits, I don’t fits.

With one ‘germ’ hand, I cling onto the metal toilet paper dispenser for balance. With my ‘clean’ hand, I pull down my trousers. I wee. There’s no toilet paper. I call for Partner. Outside the cubicle, leaning over my chair, he can just reach the door handle with his fingertips. Thinking I’m done, he swings open the door. I can see the queue of people behind Partner, and they can see me squatting above the toilet, underwear around my knees, my head braced against the wall for support.

Partner can’t shut the door; when he opened it, it flung wide open, out of his reach. I can’t hobble out to shut it myself because my bad leg is about to give out. I can’t stand up much longer. My cells are straining, trying to keep me from collapsing on the wet floor. I cling to the empty toilet paper dispenser and wait for Partner to find toilet roll. I want to wipe and go home. Partner chucks roll into my cubicle. When I fall out of the cubicle, into my wheelchair, Partner backs it down the row, finally freeing my neighbours.

I can’t wash my hands; the sink is too high. No one else can wash their hands; my chair is blocking the sink. Apologizing and dousing myself in hand sanitiser, I wedge myself into the only inch of free space… under the automatic drier. Hot air blasts in my face and I laugh, because what’s left to do? I sit on the floor so Partner can wrestle my chair out of the toilet. As I wait there, unable to move and being relentlessly pummelled by loud heat, I can hear him crashing and swearing in the tiny hallway. Now I’m giggling hysterically because I know just beyond the flap, everyone in the starry Big Room can hear cursing, metal clanging, and a roaring hand drier.

I’m dry. Thank you.

In the lobby, I ask to speak to Manager. She comes over, scared. Probably, in part, because I’m sweating profusely after my stay under the hand drier. But I’m calm. I calmly tell Manager we booked tickets on the website’s assurance that we could see most of the exhibit. I tell her a folder is not immersive. I’m blushing and my voice brittle because I hate confrontation. But I need to tell her how embarrassing it was to be shoved in a coat closet. I tell her I know she didn’t build the building; I’m not blaming her for it being old. But... Don’t say the exhibit’s accessible when a wheelchair user can’t even pee here. Change your website to say totally accessible unless you want to see the art or need to pee. But seriously, Ms. Manager, please update your website. I don’t want any other disabled people spending their money and limited energy getting here just to sit behind a curtain and feel like shit.

The Manager exhales, relieved. ‘Omg, I thought you were going to shout at me.’

And it all worked out because they changed the website and it’s now perfectly clear that wheelchairs users can’t use the toilet and can’t access the galleries — right?

….No. This is what the website currently says:

Maybe I should have shouted.

UK to US translation:

toilet = restroom

queue = line

cubicle = bathroom stall

MissAbility: Van Gogh