On November 10, I submitted a paper examining whether physical immersion could induce psychological immersion. I reminisced about hours upon enlightening hours spent in Tep 23 and Warehouse 23, resulting in a very personal article. Three days later, I received the news. The man who had redefined my reality in almost every way possible, was gone.

I met Frostbyte in November of 1998 and spent countless hours in his company over the next year, eventually leaving MIT and moving into his warehouse in the fall of 1999. Frostbyte knew everything about everything and he made it his nightly duty to ensure the health and well being of his guests. He was an artist, a true immersive artist who, through countless methods, created environments to make others smile. For many of us, we know that Frostbyte’s smile was a special occasion. Often, he seemed too stressed to enjoy his own creations (although I am certain he derived pleasure from said stress) but, at some point in the evening, I would tap him on the shoulder and he would snap his head around, and smile at me. It was the biggest, most genuinely beautiful smile. His smile was infectious and made me forget everything else.

His home was more than a room or an apartment; it was a medium with which to create, a gallery to showcase said creations, and an amusement park for anyone ventured into his nest. At TEP, he filled 23 with hundreds of lights: traffic lights, neon twists, even an upside down plastic penguin, all of which flickered in perfect synch for his light shows. My request was always “Over the Hills and Far Away.” When the lights came down in 23, it was as if my entire freshman year had been a dream, it was as if our nights of pure bliss had never happened, it was as if the room was nothing more than a phantasm, a glorious figment of my imagination… until he developed the warehouse on Congress St.

Finally, he had all the space he needed to create an alternate universe. Stumbling from room to room, his visitors walked through mazes, projections, paintings, sculptures and other visitors. Frostbyte occupied a space that demanded more bodies; his visitors were integral to his work and his existence. He was far from antisocial, rather desperately social, and offered up his home and his self for the pleasure of others; he ensured that his visitors were comfortable, happy, and above all, satisfied.

Frostbyte did everything he could to make others smile, and, on more than one occasion, he saved me from myself. I loved him very much, as I know we all did. He altered my life and taught me to love myself as much as he loved me. I believe that Gladys Knight said it the best…

“I’d rather live in his world than live without him in mine.”