keff joons top
In April 2025 I walked into a warehouse in Brooklyn and could hardly believe we were invited to climb installation which filled the huge space. Cj Wise‘small Chief Junes rose like a colossal tangle of inflatable tubes. It was a three-dimensional maze twenty feet long and had no bars or nets. We were each given a pair of orange socks and sent off to explore.
It was a rare encounter with art that felt like a genuine thrill. Navigating the massive maze was daunting and dynamic, as unexpected reverberations shook the tubes when other climbers bounced somewhere beyond my line of sight. I remember looking down to see the mats far below and thinking that one slip could send me crashing. The landing would probably be forgiving, but my brain was still registering the fall.
That little contrast between what I knew and what I felt made the experience exciting and, looking back, I shuffle around the inflatable The artwork was a great example of what is called “risky”. game‘.
Cj Hendry sculpts an inflatable dreamscape (see here) | image © Cj Hendry Studio (header © designboom)
the gap between knowledge and feeling
As a familiar example, relay rock climbing has a similar breakdown. The harness and rope system are designed to catch a fall, but many climbers still feel that exhilarating feeling of height. Every move is calculated, but the worst consequence of a mistake is already reduced by design as the relay works in the background (alternatively, in the case of the image below, a safe landing is offered by the waters of Copenhagen Harbour).
Knowing rationally that you’re safe while still feeling this sense of unease is close to what researchers call “risky play.” A 2024 study in Planning Theory & Practice defines it as an exciting physical game involving uncertainty and the possibility of injury.
The authors argue that decades of risk reduction have limited opportunities for adventurous play, while research links physically challenging play to stronger risk-assessment skills and greater self-confidence. Of course, the focus of the group is the children, but this feeling is familiar at any age. We become alert when an environment calls upon us to judge our limits.
MAST designs the world’s first open free-floating bouldering gym in Copenhagen (see here) | image © MAST
a web that moved beneath them all
I had felt another version of this in 2022, on Tomas Saraceno‘installation’Free the Air: How to Hear the Universe in a Spider/Web‘ at The hangar. A group of visitors were led through the hanging webs, entering a 95-foot-wide structure designed to mimic the sensory world of a spider. Even a step at the far end traveled through the weave like terror.
We all shivered as we got out because even though the net was tightly woven, its openings were wide enough to make us imagine a shoe slipping through. The setup featured two layers of netting, meaning another guest could be hovering over your head or moving under your body, which added to that buzz.
We even started to bond as a team because of our nervousness. We watched each other more closely and warned each other of missteps. Each change in the net brought a small spike in intensity. Saraceno’s spider metaphor became natural through this interdependence. With every subtle movement, we were affecting the experience of our neighbors.
Tomás Saraceno, Free the air: how to listen to the universe in a spider/web, The Shed, 2022 | image by Nicholas Knight
they play beyond the plan
Last week I hiked the Waihe’e Ridge Trail on Maui, the upper portion of which is known to be perpetually covered in fog and thus usually slippery with mud. Although there was little chance of serious harm on this stretch, every step felt uncertain enough to demand constant attention.
Just like the Saraceno exhibit, we were close with the other hikers, laughing before the slides even happened. It was partly from nerves and partly because we could see our swings foreshadowed by the person in front of us. The real fun of the trail came from feeling like every step was a manageable risk and from sharing that experience with others.
In retrospect, this hike helped me understand why a designed environment can feel dead even when it offers a lot to the touch. Often, “play” develops through an exchange between the body and its environment. The mud gave us a problem without prescribing the move that would solve it. We took smaller steps and looked for more stable surfaces.
Again, the uncertainty made the landscape more dynamic and the team more connected. A dry runway would see the same view, but ask less of us.
Waihe’e Ridge Trail, Maui, Hawaii | image © designboom
game versus hollow interaction
I believe that many “interactive” installations built around the theme of “play” lose energy when the role of the visitor is already fully written. Some include nostalgic games scaled up to architectural scale, but the level of engagement is quite limited. Often, they end up serving as photo opportunities. The object may invite engagement, but it offers little room to try a path, change conditions, or influence someone else’s experience.
One could argue that this points to a greater confusion between interaction and agency. Large swings or ball pits can create an immediate visual cue that reminds us of “play,” but often the experience lends something hollow and repetitive.
Many artists and designers have approached the problem through structures that ask more of the body. by Sven Pfeiffer Dangerous playground at the Kyoto Art Center they used perforated plywood panels to form a climbing pavilion that could rotate 90 degrees, changing its spaces and uses. The project was designed around forms of delinquent play that are usually excluded from Japanese public space.
Numen/For usemeanwhile, he builds habitable tape and net environments in which visitors crawl through stretched membranes that shift under collective weight.
