I stand at the edge of a parking lot of a 20,000-square-foot warehouse in the near-northwest side of Chicago, and the first thing I see is a giant smiley face. I’m at Happy Place, a pop-up exhibit lending the Windy City its presence this summer through September 3 before it hits the road again like a traveling circus.
Back to the face. Its eyes bend into the letters h and p. Clever. Its shade of yellow—sunshine—is matched by almost every detail in sight: the cones cutting the warehouse parking lot in half, the artificial grass in the waiting area, the inflatable tube men dancing beside the entrance, the wristband permitting me to enter, the T-shirt of the girl who gave me the wristband.
Here at Happy Place, every branding decision is carefully considered. Every pose perfected. Every angle accounted for. All you need to do is take a picture and remember the hashtag, #WeAreHappyPlace.
Happy Place is a winding set of hallways and rooms that feature brightly colored installations full of novelty props, next to which people pose for pictures they share on social media. Following the “pop-up” model of themed restaurants and bars that travel from town to town, Happy Place passed through Los Angeles before opening its doors here in Chicago.
Founded by Jared Paul, who produced traveling acts showcasing contestants from Dancing with the Stars and performers from Glee, Happy Place promises on its website to provide patrons “larger-than-life installations,” “multi-sensory themed rooms,” and unmissable “selfie moments.” It aims to generates buzz, attracting hordes of Instagram-experience zombies lured by the tantalizing chum of social-media-friendly backdrops and locales.
The trend of ephemeral, selfie-encouraging environments has gained steam over the past few years. Refinery29, the women-focused media company, launched 29Rooms in 2015; patrons are encouraged to bring their fully charged mobile devices to encounter artistic exhibitions designed to “unlock visitors imaginations.” In 2016, the eatery Museum of Ice Cream welcomed its first guests into what its website terms “shareable environments” that “cater to the appetites of a generation.” Museum of Ice Cream boasts four locations. Happy Place is joyfully, strategically riding this swelling wave.
Even before entering its faux-tuft yellow doors (whose portholes are eyes and whose handles look like two halves of a mouth) anyone can anticipate that Happy Place will be garish, tacky. But I want to know if the experience is still fun, if it’s silly, like a guilty pleasure—on par with sticking my head through a cardboard cutout at a carnival or hamming it up with a thousand other tourists at Pisa by pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower for a photo. Are people really having fun at Happy Place? Are they really happy? It costs me $30 (this is the weekday rate) and a $2.50 service fee to find out.
A woman snaps a band on my wrist, scans my ticket, and gestures me toward the company of Happy pilgrims awaiting our five o’clock reservation. Soon we are led into the warehouse, down a cracking concrete corridor until we spill into a small holding area where a pedestal fan rattles in the corner. The fan’s volume is overtaken by the official Happy Place instructional video that bleats from a flat-screen TV, reminding us to Have fun! Take pictures! Shop!
My cohort and I advance through a threshold of shimmering confetti strips into a brightly lit room, its walls striped yellow and white. Yellow artificial grass pokes underneath our shoes, rows of gumball machines line the walls, candy-beaded high-heel shoes stand in the corner. People cocoon in the hollow of the shoes while cameras snap, and I beeline for the young woman measuring out single-digit sums of Happy Place-branded M&Ms into tiny plastic cups. I grab a cup and knock my head back. This is Part One of the complimentary “refreshments” to which the Q&A section of the Happy Place website alludes.
The only details I remember of the next few rooms are that of a wallpaper covered in red lipstick kisses and an empty dance floor where disco lights flicker and the Usher song “Yeah!” featuring Lil Jon and Ludacris blasts from loudspeakers.
I reach the Rainbow Room, which a friendly employee (an aspiring screenwriter) informs me is arguably the most popular Happy Place installation. The room is large and rectangular and houses a huge inflatable rainbow backdrop, its air-powered ROYGBIV pipings stretching over—yet another—yellow smiley face. The face overlooks a “pot of gold,” an enormous inflatable tub containing hundreds of softball-sized, lemon-colored plastic balls.
I file into a uniform line with the others. A retractable belt barrier separates us from the spectacle, and from here we watch two teenage girls strike an array of poses—silly, serious, kissy—while their parents stand at the pot’s edge, snapping pictures with dueling smartphones. Then the pair of teens do what we are all here to do. They leap and plunge, Scrooge McDuck-style, into the pot of gold. The proud parents cant their cameras with an auteur’s conviction.
I shuffle through the next series of rooms: (1) a suite of closet-sized decorated sets, including a rubber-ducky-and-bathtub display; (2) furniture bolted onto the ceiling, for an “upside-down” effect; (3) an oversized “HAPPY” statue (this is also the room where I pluck from a cardboard tree Part Two of my complimentary refreshments: a single orange Tootsie Pop); (4) thousands of fake yellow flowers; and (5) a domed platform, under which a motorized air-blower supposedly puffs up a bunch of confetti meant to swirl around me like a snow globe; however, the air power is hardly strong enough even to push confetti across the floor (“It helps if you pick up a pile and toss it in the air while you take the picture,” the attendant very kindly encourages me, she a surprising participant in my lifelong quest to impress others).
After some consternation I reach the last section of the show, a large, tented area with plenty of merchandise available for purchase: T-shirts, knickknacks, $11 rainbow grilled cheese sandwiches (that is, grilled cheese sandwiches colored with food dye). Here, at the end, it is time for me to take emotional stock and, as best I can, discern the happiness of those around me.
I at least am happy. I got what I came here for: to feel mildly annoyed by the narcissism of others, to chafe at influencers and wealthy, duck-faced couples feigning joy for their social feeds. Selfie-culture is low-hanging fruit, and I came to take a swing.
But I am also depressed. Not because Happy Place is excessive (it is), but because it is boring. Like Party City the day after Halloween, the Vegas Strip during sunlight. Up close, without a screen and filter to mediate, everything at Happy Place looks cheaper, lighter, thrown together. The warehouse’s skylight windows and rusty beams are kept out of the camera’s view. The wall’s blemishes and dents are blown out by bright lights. Happy Place feels hollow, yet carefully orchestrated: a maze of emperors in new clothes kindly looking the other way while we take turns performing happiness for the momentary blink of the aperture.
“It helps if you pick up a pile and toss it in the air while you take the picture.”
#WeAreHappyPlace, indeed.
