In the MCA’s photography exhibition WITNESS, the museum draws from its permanent collection to depict the photographer as both artist and spectator- an exploration of the finite encounter behind the photograph rather than the infinite interpretations the photograph evokes. The exhibition attempts to flesh out the moment between subject and artist, navigating the concept of gaze independent from a camera lens. However, as I passed the conveniently timed Kerry James Marshall photograph and noticed the irony of the Cindy Sherman pieces, the idea of WITNESS began to unfold as a vague concept used to dust off an amazing collection. I imagined the curator being dealt a jumble of photographs from a Scrabble pile and told to thematically string them together to win the game.

But then I saw the Triple Word Score in the gallery, the artwork where it all clicked, the piece which had to inform the concept if not the entire idea for the exhibition: Alfredo Jaar’s 2006 installation The Sound of Silence.

Tucked in the back corner of the gallery, through a miniature hallway, lies Jaar’s major installation. The front facing wall of the metal cube fills the entire room with a sterile light. The sight floats lightly in the bare space. Its glow not enchanting but instead mystifying, implying a distance to be kept before approaching the bug zapper-esque object. After stepping closer, the three horizontal sections break into hundreds of fluorescent light tubes creating a grid of blackness and intense brightness.

Since the room is only occupied by the structure and only lit by the front facing wall, once the light threshold is crossed the back half of the gallery becomes plainly dim. Printed on the floor are the directions “When the light is green, you may enter the structure” as well as the running time of the 8-and-a-half-minute video. In the leftover glow of the fluorescent light sits a simple white bench where you are able to wait for the space age LED lights to signal you inside.

While waiting on the bench, facing a giant metal cube you are about to enter, you really can’t help but feel like you are on the last round of Russian nesting dolls. In a building, in a room, in a room, in a box, the unlit side of the installation eerily mirrors the entry of the museum itself- this time without the cardio of the grand staircase. The same cold, square, metallic tiles give a sense of re-entry to the space, a weighty ritual act of recommitting to the exhibition you were in, yet waiting for patiently on a bench.

With all of the rising action built into the experience, I don’t think anything would have shocked me inside. Would a false floor drop me into the film? Would I be escorted through a series of miniature rooms each containing fragments of a story? Would every wall be a screen pelting me with audiovisual marginalia? But alas, entry demystified the installation revealing the interior as the familiar museum film set-up any other room could have provided.

I’ve always thought of the museum film as the ultimate litmus test separating gawking tourist from cultured aficionado. In the ubiquitous black benched room, larger questions of humility and pride are provided the ultimate battle ground. If I sit down at an insignificant time do I stay after everyone leaves? Are any of these strangers as aware as me that this is a big game of chicken after not checking the run-time? Will those people at the entrance of the room ever sit down?

Despite its familiar aesthetic, The Sound of Silence alleviates the anxieties surrounding the museum film through its dramatic build-up and demand for patience. Once the film begins, the audience is taken on a phrase-by-phrase poetic account of Kevin Carter’s life as a South African photojournalist. The phrases are communicated through slides of white typewriter font printed on the black screen. The font read as unfairly dated compared to the futuristic, graphic exterior of the installation, resembling something from a true crime story on television or end a melodramatic after school special. Although the font required some growing pains, the story of Kevin Carter’s tragic life and Pulitzer Prize winning photo unfurls beautifully.

It is this simplistic beauty of the storytelling that draws you into the screen and divorces the four industrial sized flash heads paired on either side from the equation, fading into the blackness. While their presence is rather obvious when you first enter the tiny room, the implied ellipsis after each careful phrase of the narrative and the exclusion of music make it impossible to know when the flash will go off- no grand crescendo to follow or clear climax to a story dripping with reality and teetering with emotions.

And then it goes off.

Right after Carter ends his life due to questions surrounding his morality in combination with the famine stricken and war torn images that haunt him, the giant flash heads activate and provoke a giant gasp and collective shudder.

This is where the genius of the piece takes flight. Bewildered and disoriented by the flash, here is the short moment where Carter’s award-winning, life-changing, story crux photograph becomes available. As your eyes refocus, you have the opportunity to enter the photograph meaningfully in the same way you had to choose to enter the microcosmic space of the installation. In the shock of the flash, you have access to the moment as if it were happening in real time. No lingering, no loitering, only the ephemeral glance.

As I re-entered the rest of the WITNESS exhibition, the once floating installation felt heavy behind me. In my exit, a part of me wanted that flash to connect to something. The feeling after a roller coaster ride where you search for your screaming photo at the gift shop. The flash as a tool to take, rudely snatching a moment and commodifying it, taking a moment without intervening, taking a moment and making it yours rather than the subject’s, the flash as a distraction from the human behind the camera.

Jaar’s piece added an essential depth to WITNESS, a newfound tone of reflection before facing the photographs again on the way out to the lobby. His imaginative interpretation of photography in a museum context was resonating, adding tight punctuation to the loose theme of the exhibition.

The installation proved as an utterly transformative space. A catalyst revealing the nuance of what is significant and insignificant about photography and a more refined approach to exploring the power of the photographical moment. Each photograph catalogued as a serial number in a tireless collection could carry the same richness or tragedy- but how could I know? Am I supposed to know? …Do I want to know?

Oh, and as for the photograph- I think you should see it yourself.