At “EmotionAir: Art You Can Feel,” the latest import from the roving Balloon Museum, you’re not so much viewing art as you are being swallowed by it. The space hums with light, color and the faint whoosh of industrial fans—a cathedral of air where the holy sacrament is snapping a selfie before the moment deflates.
Until April 6, 2026, Avondale’s Fields Studios will be packed with nearly 20 soundstage-sized balloon-based installations—like horned sculptures spouting soap bubbles, inflated spheres scrawled with abstract squiggles and, of course, the infamous rose-colored ball pit that was essentially the best supporting actor in season three of Emily in Paris.
True to the exhibition’s name—a play on “emotional,” no doubt—each installation is introduced by a digital screen adorned with an artist statement and the emotion each piece strives to elicit from the viewer. The exhibition’s tagline “art you can feel” certainly rings true—especially if your emotional range tends to hover between wonder, mild disorientation and the irresistible urge to document every waking moment of your life on TikTok.
I was invited to a press preview of “EmotionAir” a day before its highly anticipated public opening. In lieu of choosing my own adventure as I navigated the exhibition, I was guided through a labyrinth of rooms that built toward catharsis—or something like it—as if the curators were engaging in emotional choreography: fear here, awe there, some discomfort peppered throughout. In some moments, I felt like I was sternly being told to “have fun” at a party—I managed it, but only once I'd accepted that someone was grading my enthusiasm.
Some installations are wondrous and cinematic, while others resemble the aftermath of a philosophy major discovering helium. Perpetual Ballet by HyperStudio and Mauro Pace is an easy standout: Visitors stand in the center of a man-made tornado and proceed to be jabbed by hundreds of metallic silver balloons waltzing and bouncing through the air. One of the exhibition’s most provocative moments springs from Somehow, I don’t feel comfortable, in which Japan-born artist Momoyo Torimitsu subverts the cutesy kawaii aesthetic with colossal fuchsia rabbits inflated to the point of near-bursting—a commentary on the pains of living in a patriarchal society. On the other hand, Cube Abyss by Cyril Lancelin offers an audacious concept—a webbed inflatable maze soundtracked by disembodied growls meant to elicit fear—but ultimately falters in execution; a conclusion I reached as I was crawling through a latex lattice, feeling more humiliated than fearful.
Still, cynicism only gets you so far in a warehouse building choked with comically large balloons. Despite my own misgivings, “EmotionAir” remains disarming. People laugh without irony. Grown adults flop backward into a pit of gleaming white balls—sometimes losing their shoes or Rolex watches to the plastic abyss, according to a museum staffer. Somewhere between the backlit balloon figures with wandering LED eyes and the room scattered with interactive kaleidoscopes, my inner critic floated away.
This is not a museum for those who prefer to wander hushed galleries, hands clasped behind their backs, afraid to touch anything for fear of being fined the value of their lives. The Balloon Museum wants verbs—jumping, flailing, posting, grinning. Especially posting. This place rewards motion more than contemplation, so save the AP Art History lecture for another time and place.
In the end, “EmotionAir” might not change your life, but it will absolutely improve your Instagram grid. It’s art as experience, experience as content and content as a fleeting delight—which, depending on your mood, feels either terribly hollow or oddly comforting. And really, in a city where winter sprawls across half a calendar year and the sun clocks out at four, who could blame anyone for chasing some artificial light?
Timed tickets for “EmotionAir” are currently on sale through April 2026 (Mon–Thu 1–7pm, Fri noon–8pm, Sat 10am–8pm, Sun 10am–7pm) and are available here. Tickets start at $43.19 (including fees) for adults, with prices jacking up $10 on weekends.