Imagine this: you are walking through an art gallery in the heart of metropolitan San Francisco. It’s a fancy one. So fancy that all the men are wearing turtlenecks and the ladies boast full length gowns. So fancy that they have cocktail hours on Friday nights and glass protecting their priceless artwork.

You, the viewer, spend hours sitting in front of a red brick’s worth of paint splattered onto a blank canvas. You consider the meaning in this piece: its reflections on imperfection, structure, nature, life. You chuckle – the famous “rich laugh” as my friend Mariana calls it – with friends as you stroll through galleries of oversized painting, undersized sculptures, and purposefully blurred photographs.

No wonder everyone ridicules modern art. 

Right before you exit, you stumble upon one last exhibit. It’s stuck far in the back, out of view. However, you are a completionist, like one of the ones who will spend hundreds of hours to “hundred-percent” a video game. So, you venture into its dark reaches, where few visitors go and fewer return.

As you enter the room, your surroundings slowly fade and darkness encompasses you. You come to an impasse. The darkness fades, mellowed by the soft light of a video projector. You hear, eerily at first, then invitingly, the enchanting music of an Icelandic voice.

You turn the corner and come face-to-face with a man. Sitting in a bathtub. Strumming his guitar. Naked. (Fortunately, you don’t get a full view.)

Welcome to San Francisco’s Museum of Modern Art (SF MOMA) and its fan favorite exhibition, “The Visitors.”

Wow. That was not what I was expecting. Maybe I really have been here too long, you think. You start to leave. You start to leave, but you do not finish. 

Because that music captures you. You open your eyes and see a plethora of video displays, all synchronized together, singing the same song in the same house, yet separated by the monitor.

Besides the man in the bathtub, there’s a cellist in a light underdressing, a bassist at the home office desk, a drummer in family room, two pianists in the dining hall, an accordionist in the bed room, a guitarist in another bedroom, and a collection of individuals situated on the balcony outside.

Two things bring them all together. One: the house. Located in upstate New York, it’s a location that looks like’s been taken straight from Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion attraction, decked out with gargoyle statues, large white columns out front, tattered walls, large antique furniture, no over head lights but only small lanterns and big wide windows.

Two: the music. Despite being physically separated in different locations throughout the house, all the artists are synced up, singing the same song. Their melodies reflect on the complexity, trials, and arc of life. The songs are interluded with dramatic instrumental climaxes and often concluded by a cannon fired from the balcony. (Yes, a real, live cannon. I’m not joking.)

The juxtaposition of the acoustic, calling music and haunting, surreal surroundings compels you to sit and listen. To reflect. First, what exactly are they doing here? Then, what are they saying? What do their actions mean? What are these lyrics? Simply, yet very grandiosely, the thought soon creeps in that you are, in fact, reflecting on the human condition. In this hour long, one-take display, the artists use their music and surroundings to make you think about what being human really does mean.

Then, you look around yourself. You are not alone. It’s not just you, in your turtleneck, looking at a blob of red on a blank canvas. The group here is larger than you thought the whole museum could hold. And, they are not just wearing turtlenecks. The people here fit jeans, sweaters, flip flops, berets, leggings, ball caps and cargo pants.

And, they’re all just plopped down straight in the middle. All of them sitting in a dark room, mesmerized and unsure about who, where and what to take in. 

As you come to realize that this piece brings people together, you see that it also brings the artists together. You turn over your shoulder to inspect one of the onscreen pianists, only to see he’s vacated his seat. Funny. I hope everything’s okay. I hope that something didn’t happen to him. You look over to the other pianist. There he is! Wow, I didn’t know they could move. And, what’s that he’s holding? As you see his fellow pianist take a pause from the music to pour some bourbon, toast, and light a cigar, you think, Maybe they are not as far apart as I thought.

You watch carefully as the scenery around you changes. The accordionist stands up, drops her accordion and starts singing. The guy in the bathtub stops strumming and switches to making a beat in his bathwater. (Yes, I’m being serious.) The men manning the cannon on the balcony scramble to reload it with new newspaper for the next climax. (They give up, instead favoring the already smelted pieces and shoving them back into the cannon.)

Eventually, you watch as the drummer stands up and walks away from his station. Hmmm… Maybe he wants a glass of scotch like the pianists, you think. You watch him walk into frame with the pianist — and continue on. Slowly, he walks through the creaky halls of the manor, tapping each artist on their shoulder. Not a word is said, but they all follow him. Even the man in the bathtub (with a towel fortunately). They collect in the pianists’ dining hall, and pop a bottle of champagne all while continuing to sing.

They make their way out to the balcony, gathering the crowd pooled there, and they continue onwards. Where will they go? you ask. The camera pans. It answers: off into the sunset. They slowly march, continuing to sing their song throughout the way.

The end, you think. A member of the party steals the bath towel from the guitarist, who is now naked. The end… Two dogs – one barking – chases after the pack. The camera man noisily coughs. The end. All’s well that ends well. You watch as they continue onward off into the distance. The end? you think. You clap. You are sure it’s done. It’s a masterpiece, you think.

But, there is one step you are forgetting. One by one, the camera man walks through the halls of the manor. Speechless. Closed lips. One by one, he turns off the cameras. Until every last one is blank. The end.

I have told many people about this exhibit. I feel fortunate to get to tell you as well. But, really, anyone who has heard me talk about this exhibit will hear me say this: words simply cannot explain the experience. 

I still stand by that statement. I hope this review gives a little bit of an insight into the magnificence encapsulated in “The Visitors,” but you have to see it, hear it, sit it, think it, live it to really know. 

Sadly, “The Visitors” closed at the SF MOMA a little over a week ago, on Sept. 28. Those who were there can attest to its beauty, and those who were not – well, I can only hope that you will have the opportunity to see it in another place.