Can you imagine a world dominated by dots? And I mean, dominated. So much so that these dots become the focal point of your whole existence. So much so that they become the very essence of your being.

You can’t? Neither can I. But this seems to be the experience of Yayoi Kusama, one of the most celebrated Japanese artists of all time, whose work is currently honoured by an incredible exhibition at Cologne’s Museum Ludwig, which, in turn, is celebrating its fiftieth anniversary.

As soon as I heard about this exhibition, I wanted to see it. But, as so often in life, other things got in the way, and I put it off a couple of times. I put it off until almost one month before its end – only to realise that it had already been completely sold out…

Anyway, thanks to the Internet, I was able to secure one of the last tickets and visit this marvellous exhibition after all – together with a crowd of people the likes of which I hadn’t seen inside the walls of a museum for a long time.

So, there I was, meandering through the exhibition alongside countless other visitors and Kusama’s brightly coloured artworks, pushing my way through openings in the crowd to catch a glimpse of all the dreamlike paintings, and finding myself, again and again, waiting to be let into one of the “Infinity Rooms” – large mirror-clad boxes that form some of the central pieces of Kusama’s art.

If I had to pick one of the artworks as my favourite, it would definitely be the relatively recent piece Flowers That Speak All about My Heart Given to the Sky from 2018. But apart from looking every bit as unconventional as one would expect from a work by Kusama, I mention it because it was placed on the rooftop terrace of Museum Ludwig, which is itself directly next to Cologne Cathedral – resulting in the wonderful contrast of this colourful masterpiece against the Gothic monument.

As during every good visit to a museum, I learned a lot. Of course, I had read about Kusama and her work before my trip, but it is nevertheless something different when you are there, surrounded by her pieces and somehow in the presence of the aura of the artist herself.

I learned about her early life, which was shaped by the strict conventions of Japanese society and the rules imposed by her family.

I learned about her move to the US, more specifically to New York, where she was very active but still did not achieve the recognition in the art world that she had hoped for.

But most importantly, I learned about her final return to Japan in 1977, when she admitted herself to a psychiatric hospital, where she has lived ever since – now being over 90 years old.

And, to be honest, from that point onwards I wasn’t thinking about Kusama all that much anymore, even though I remained fascinated by her art.

I was thinking about Michel Foucault.

More specifically, I was thinking about his Madness and Civilization. And I am pretty sure I was not the first person to make that connection, because it just seems so incredibly obvious to me.

In this work, which was also his first book and laid the foundation for his lasting recognition, the famous French philosopher’s central argument is that insanity is not merely a medical condition, and therefore not something that can be clearly defined.

For Foucault, insanity is also socially constructed.

It is something that is defined by a society that judges certain forms of behaviour to be atypical and therefore to be expressions of mental illness.

In short, according to Foucault, it is not nature itself that defines what is insane – society does.

Therefore, he argues, what we understand as “insane” changes as society changes.

And there I was, standing among hundreds of artworks by a woman who had voluntarily admitted herself to a psychiatric hospital, the very place in which, according to Foucault, insanity was confined. A woman who, regardless of how we describe her mental state, is arguably very different from what society would consider “normal”. A woman, finally, who was marginalized in the very world she had fought so hard to become a part of for such a large part of her life.

But at the same time, today Kusama is anything but marginalized. Today, she is the exact opposite. She is one of the world’s leading living artists. And an exhibition dedicated solely to her in one of Germany’s leading art museums was sold out long before its end.

At the same time – as I could witness with my own eyes while wading through its deep colours – her artwork has not changed fundamentally over the last decades. It is still dominated by the large dots that are so central to Kusama’s way of being.

Is this proof of Foucault’s thesis? Is this proof that our society has fundamentally changed? Did Kusama’s “insanity” turn into greatness because of the profound changes our society has undergone since her youth?

This was the question that presented itself to me. And at first, the answer seemed obvious.

But then I became sceptical.

Kusama is still living in her psychiatric hospital, isn’t she? 

In fact, I would argue that we hold her art in such high regard nowadays precisely because of the very fact that we consider her to be very different from what we regard as normal. Or, in short, Kusama is so fascinating to us today precisely because of her still recognized “insanity”.

But this does not change the fact that today she is famous and successful. Back then, she was not.

So, what changed?

Could it be that both of the above are true at the same time?

Could it be that Foucault was right even about the very perception of insanity itself?

Could it be that our understanding of the value of being insane, of being different, of being “not normal”, has changed within our society?

And then my train of thought took another turn and came – as it usually does – back to its very origin: my own research and the questions that drive it.

Maybe this perceived value of being unusual even returned to something more fundamental. Maybe it changed back to a state in which a society can recognize a very particular value in insanity.

Because, I would argue, in a way, this is what happened not only in antiquity but in many premodern societies.

Back then, the deeply confusing mumbling of the mentally ill was very often – although not always and certainly not by principle – interpreted as divinely inspired. Even when it came from highly marginalized individuals, it could be regarded as something special that, in its own way and in its own place, deserved to be taken seriously, interpreted, and understood – rather than disregarded.

But then, that’s the thing, isn’t it? 

In its own way and in its own place…

After all, I did not meet Kusama on the street.

I made a trip into her world inside a museum.

Could it be that, in a way, she is still marginalized through the very act of adoration she receives from us today?

And if so, from this perspective, would Foucault be right or wrong?

Or, to put it differently, is it possible for a society to de-marginalize something it considers abnormal simply by placing value on it?

Or is this merely another way of dealing with ways of thinking it does not understand?