How

Walking into Renzo Nero’s hotel felt like stepping into a living graphic novel—one where every shadow and corridor hummed with intention. I’d been invited, like many others, to participate in what Nero called an “immersive artistic project,” but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer theatricality of the experience. From the moment I crossed the threshold, I was struck by the deliberate staging: fixed camera angles guiding my gaze, the stark black-and-white vector-style 3D graphics lending everything a surreal, cinematic quality. It wasn’t just a space; it was a meticulously designed puzzle box, and I was both spectator and participant.

As I navigated those labyrinthine halls, I couldn’t help but marvel at how Nero plays with perception. The fixed perspectives aren’t just an aesthetic choice—they’re a narrative device. Each scene unfolds like a film still, forcing you to slow down, to really look. And in doing so, you start noticing things: a misplaced object, a half-hidden symbol, the faint echo of a story waiting to be uncovered. I remember spending what felt like hours—maybe 20 minutes in real time—in one particular room, just studying the angular geometry of a staircase, convinced it held some clue. It’s this layering of visual intrigue and interactive exploration that makes the project so compelling, at least to someone like me who thrives on dissecting artistic intent.

What struck me most, though, was how the environment mirrors Nero’s own eccentric persona. The hotel doesn’t just house the art—it is the art. Every hallway, every locked door, every seemingly random object is part of a larger, interconnected mystery. And as you move through the space, you begin to piece together not just Nero’s story, but your own role in it. I found myself questioning my assumptions constantly. Was that journal left open on the desk a genuine artifact, or another piece of staging? The ambiguity is deliberate, and honestly, it’s brilliant. Nero forces you to engage not just with the space, but with your own process of interpretation.

I’ve participated in maybe 15–20 immersive art installations over the past decade, but Nero’s approach stands out for its refusal to hold your hand. There’s no map, no guide—just you, the environment, and your intuition. And while that can feel daunting at first, it’s also incredibly liberating. You learn to trust your instincts, to read between the lines of the visual language. At one point, I stumbled into a room that seemed to serve no purpose—just an empty chair and a flickering light. But as I stood there, the fixed camera angle shifted slightly, revealing a hidden panel in the wall. It was a small moment, but it reinforced the idea that in Nero’s world, nothing is accidental.

Of course, this kind of project isn’t for everyone. Some might find the lack of clear direction frustrating, or the monochromatic palette visually monotonous. But for those willing to lean into the mystery, the rewards are profound. By the time I’d uncovered what I believe was the central thread of Nero’s narrative—a story about artistic legacy and the illusion of control—I felt like I hadn’t just solved a puzzle; I’d co-created the experience with him. And that, I think, is the point. The hotel isn’t a static exhibition; it’s a dialogue.

In reflecting on the experience, I keep coming back to the interplay between structure and freedom. Nero gives you just enough framework to feel grounded—the fixed perspectives, the vector-art aesthetic—but within that, there’s immense room for personal discovery. It’s a delicate balance, and one that I think more interactive artists should aspire to. Too much freedom can feel aimless; too much structure, restrictive. Nero, in my opinion, nails it. Walking out of that hotel, I didn’t just feel like I’d seen something—I felt like I’d lived it. And really, isn’t that what the best art does? It doesn’t just show you a world; it lets you step inside, even if just for a little while.