Eyes wide open: A peek inside James Turrell’s Perceptual Cell

I imagine that I know what it’s like to be abducted by aliens.

Or to leap out of a speeding jet while tripping on acid.

With only two weeks left before the Los Angeles County Museum of Art’s James Turrell retrospective closes, I squeaked into the artist’s much talked about Perceptual Cell, “Light Reignfall,� last weekend.

The retrospective is open to anyone who makes a reservation, but the Perceptual Cell is a separate $45 ticket for a 12-minute psychedelic experience that only one person can experience at a time, every 20 minutes. It’s been sold out since summer 2013.

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For those who can’t catch “Light Reignfall,� a glimpse of my tour: Inside the cell, a computerized program of saturated light that Turrell engineered was to deliver a kaleidoscopic burst of light patterns. But prior, the experience felt a little like Woody Allen’s 1973 sci-fi spoof, “Sleeper:� the iron lung-like, spacecraft-looking cell standing about 15 feet in diameter, alone in a corner; the congenial women dressed in white lab coats sitting cross-legged at the front of the line; the medical waiver that had to be signed along with emergency contact info, should anything go wrong; even the white, vinyl electronic bed that slides visitors in and out of the cell, not unlike an MRI machine.

“Hard or soft?� one woman asked me when I turned in my paperwork. “You can choose.�

“Soft� is a series of slow-morphing color schemes, she explained, similar to some of Turrell’s works in the retrospective. I chose “hard,� a more intense program featuring fast, strobe-like flashes.

I stripped off my shoes and jewelry and left my belongings in a container outside the cell, then laid down on the slim bed, barely wider than my body. My head was nestled into a cushy ring that reminded me of a massage table. The attendant gave me headphones, through which a series of electronic beats, synced to the light, would play; the soundtrack, she said, would lull my brain waves into an alpha, meditative state.

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With a sudden, loud whoosh the bed slid backward into the blindingly white cell, as the waving attendant’s slim frame receded. I gripped the panic button she’d slipped onto my wrist.

Inside: silence -- a distinct, echo-y silence, if that makes sense. The bed seemed to be suspended in midair, with a substantial drop below.

The music started up, soft and intermittent at first, then gradually louder and faster. A cool wash of blue drowned the interior of the capsule.

Soon it was like being inside a kaleidoscope, with quickly morphing colors, sharp flashes and geometric patterns bleeding into one another all around. There was no retreat, nowhere to focus the eyes to retreat from the light. I shut my eyes for a second, seeking a moment’s escape, but the aggressive light patterns bled through.

So I succumbed to it. I opened my eyes wide and let my eyeballs relax. It felt like I was melting into the multicolored abyss. It was both energizing and relaxing, terrifying and beautiful.

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I felt as though I were floating. Stanley Kubrick’s “2001: A Space Odyssey� came to mind, as did “Pink Floyd The Wall�; this was followed, oddly, by shards of romantic memories, long-ago forgotten, over a lost adolescent love; followed by a reminder to pick up kitty litter; followed by what a cool experience this was; followed by all the work awaiting me upon my return home.

Followed by the fact that Turrell, himself, had warned me, when I interviewed him earlier in the week, that this would happen.

“It’s not exactly calming, although the effect can be after you’ve been in there a while,� he said. “Your mind races; it takes a while before the mind can settle down and get out of its hurried thought.�

I was reminded of what Turrell’s contemporary, the artist Helen Pashgian, had said that week when I spoke with her about her solo exhibition opening at LACMA on March 30.

“James may be the great genius of our time,� she said.

Suddenly, the music faded and the lights softened and slowed. Then that whoosh again -- and a sliver of harsh, almost metallic light came into view as the bed slid forward and the chipper attendant came into view.

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For the rest of the afternoon, I felt oddly energized, restored. Which was also something Turrell had spoke of.

“The work that you’ll see in there is about cleansing the mind. It does do that,� he said. “It’s a little bit invasive, but I’m sure you can handle it.�

He was right. I’d go again, if I could.

“James Turrell: A Retrospective� is not sold out. It closes April 6.

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