A building that one passes nearly every day, just on the commute to South Campus from North Campus, to North Campus from South Campus. One that many students (myself included) seem to use solely as a tool to check their reflection before heading to class, sneaking that furtive glance and playing it off as if it hadn’t happened. There are two buildings on campus where this check-yourself-in-the-mirror-but-pretend-not-to occurrence appears, but the one I am writing about is not the side of BioMed that one passes going toward Page-Robinson Hall after climbing the dreaded incline from Em-Wool up to Brown Street (one that has rubbed me the wrong way a few too many times, especially after struggling, huffing and puffing up the hill, when I am already late for class). Instead, I am writing about the Lindemann Performing Arts Center; a jewel of a building humbly tucked away a couple blocks north from the heart of campus; one that, despite its lustrous, shining silver hue and extraordinary architecture, seems to be no more than a mirror to most—save for all the music students on campus.
When entering Lindemann Performing Arts Center from its main entrance, it feels as if one has exited Brown’s quaint, studious atmosphere and entered somewhere reminiscent of a crystal palace. Maybe I am just saying that because its exterior strikes me as too illustrious to constitute that of an ordinary building—I’m not entirely sure. Entering requires one to climb a stone staircase beside grandiose silver blocks and walk through two pairs of automatic glass sliding doors. Funnily enough, these doors seem more fitting for ones leading to a security vault housing crown jewels, or maybe an opening to some billionaire’s front door. Sometimes, when evening hits and the sky turns dark, spotlights appear in little radiant circles on the ground from the top of the building, illuminating the concrete like shadows of miniscule stars one can walk over. In my opinion, the only other structure on Brown’s campus that can compare to Lindemann’s luminescence is the dancing tinfoil men structure a few yards away. Maybe the two were placed strategically? As if the dancing men are a material representation of what is going on in the equally lustrous building that faces them? I sometimes wonder if Brown’s campus was constructed with things like this in mind.
I mainly go to Lindemann to practice and prepare for my weekly piano lessons. After climbing the stairs and entering the glass doors, I usually take the elevator down to LL2, where four individual practice rooms lie waiting. Here, musicians fill the space—a quartet of violin, viola, cello and piano players packed into a single practice room, piano and oboe players practicing their solos, and sometimes even people singing together in the stairwells. The floor’s walls and doors are painted white in a hue that is almost blinding the first time one steps into it. Even the scheduling process for practice rooms here seems to be top-notch—scheduling a practice room requires a formal Google Calendar invitation, with each schedule displayed digitally next to each room.
One of the main highlights of Lindemann, however, is not related to music at all—admittedly, it is the bathrooms one level above the practice room floor. A contrast from LL1’s surprisingly orange hallway, the bathroom has a sterile, hospital-like nature. Funnily enough, the first time I used this pristine bathroom I was almost scared to death. This was due to the voices—yes, real voices, that sounded as if multiple people were talking in an empty bathroom—that constantly echo throughout the room. The first time I used it, I didn’t read the sign next to the door that read “Canned Audio: A Restroom Audio Experience,” so I was shocked when voices above, next to and below me started spewing lines of poetry. I still remember the distinct lines of poetry—those I committed to memory while panicking and trying to find a source of the strange but oddly calming voices that I’d never expected to hear in an empty bathroom. They were a mix of rhetorical questions: “How long is your tail? Is the opposite of a firefly a waterfall? How long would it take to walk to the moon and back?”
Needless to say, it was a relief to find out that this Canned Audio Experience was an actual implementation within the building rather than something I hallucinated in my midway-through-practice-session haze. After Googling “canned audio experience lindemann bathroom,” I came across the audio experience’s description: “Welcome to Canned Audio. Thank you for taking a moment out of your busy day to experience this space in a new way. These audio installations play on an indefinite mono loop in the restrooms on LL3, LL1, and Balcony Level 3 in the Lindemann Performing Arts Center at the discretion of BAI staff. This activation aims to transform a utility space into something new/unexpected. We hope you enjoy it.”
What is the process of turning an old space into something new? What are its motivations, and who is the intended audience of such a renovation? Does it take viewing something as “new/unexpected” to fully appreciate its beauty? As each week passes and each semester draws to a close, it may seem as though the more familiar Brown becomes, the easier it is to take for granted. The unique academic department buildings one passes every day, the majestic Van Winkle gates in front of the Rock and Hay, the Main Green that manages to exhibit a homely feel despite the grandiose lecture buildings that rest on top of it—after a while, all seem to fade into the background. From what I’ve learned being a student at Brown for three semesters now, it is almost laughably easy to turn something one once thought was exciting and unattainable into the new norm. Case in point: Being a student at Brown, now, often evokes no more excitement than the fact that there are bathrooms in Lindemann, or the fact that Andrews serves dry noodles on Tuesdays and Fridays. Maybe the point of the Canned Audio Experience in Lindemann is to remind students and performers alike of this paradox. Maybe it is there to keep evoking the sense of wonder and excitement that once surged through our veins the first time we stepped onto campus. This sense is one that exists in anything we choose to find delight, comfort or pleasure in—even something as random or quirky as a canned audio experience in the performing art building’s bathrooms.
The Lindemann bathrooms are just another one of Brown’s many quirks, one that seems to make Brown even more of an embodiment of Brown than it already is.
