The ticket counter isn’t immediately apparent, as though the space was conceived for frictionless, automated entry. I finally find the cashier and notice several laminated sheets nearby urging visitors to download a free mobile app with a QR code. I make a meek attempt to do so, but quickly lose interest when I notice nobody else is using it. Put away the screen, my auto-pilot inner parent voice says—it's time to experience something real.

From the main entrance, visitors are funnelled into the central atrium via a long, narrow passageway. The winding, curvy walls appear to be made of a white, mesh-like material — the kind you might find on a speaker. The walls are alive, chirping, rustling, and grunting. Several scuff marks have accumulated here and there on the once-pristine material. The passageway eventually leads to the atrium, the nucleus connecting all four ecosystems, bathed in natural light and more white walls.

My readiness to explore could be explained by prospect-refuge theory. According to the theory, environments that meet psychological needs for exploration and safety allow people to observe (prospect) without being seen (refuge). From an architectural perspective, prospect and refuge require elements of openness and enclosure (Dosen and Ostwald, 2013), which feature prominently in the journey from the entrance to the atrium. But despite this sense of openness and safety, I head towards a familiar ecosystem first, the Laurentian Maple Forest.

Laurentian Maple Forest

“Observe the vegetation and you’ll know what the season is,” states the description of this ecosystem in the fold-out paper guide. The deciduous trees bear green leaves like it’s late spring, but the forest floor is covered in dead leaves like fall. Natural, diffused light streams in through the glass roof. Looking up, I see bright caged lights, which look like the stadium lighting illuminating a night-time baseball game. The combination of natural and artificial light creates sharp and soft shadows.

Props lend a sense of visual richness and complexity to the environment. A stump, chiselled into a tell-tale pencil point, signals that a beaver is nearby. However, its location outside the animal enclosure means human hands have placed it there. What appear to be moose antlers also add visual complexity to the scene, but the Biodôme is not home to moose.

Amidst the replicated wilderness, I notice an awkward sphere on a stick–the first of many to be seen on this visit. Is it a camera? Who is being watched? This is not quite the cybernetic meadow, with its machines of loving grace, as described by poet Richard Brautigan.

The simulated habitats are often the main attraction, particularly when the exhibits are napping or hiding. The otter is nowhere to be found. I eventually see the raccoon high up in a tree, staring down at me. As I descend into a cave designed to evoke the sensation of entering a beaver dam, I do not spot the beavers swimming in the underwater observation area, but I can observe them curled up and sleeping on the Beaver Cam.

Gulf of St. Lawrence

The transition area between the Laurentian Maple Forest and the Gulf of St. Lawrence ecosystems feels distinctly nautical, like a staff-only space on a cruise ship. A peek inside one of the circular vents reveals long tubes disappearing into a dark nothingness. I wonder if this leads to the Biodôme’s “underground river,” the geothermal system. Exposed piping, venting, and tubing are ever-present throughout the interior of the building, which suggests a departure from an earlier philosophy. In a 1994 NFB documentary, Pierre Bourque, who is credited with coming up with the idea for the Velodrome’s transformation, described how technology and science carry the blame for environmental destruction: “We wanted to clear their names. With the Biodôme we had the idea science and technology would be present but underground, hidden, used with refinement and discretion,” he stated.

A dark passageway opens into a panoramic, underwater viewing window of the Atlantic sturgeons, which swim slowly like living rocks. Massive columns in the water match their impressive size. “Are the rock formations real?” I ask an employee. He replies with a scripted and playful answer, informing me that all rock formations are concrete formations that skilled artists have painted. “Oh, so they are all fake,” I confirm. Not wanting to offend, however, I quickly add: “They are very convincing, though!”

Moving on to the open space of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, the temperature drops slightly. An earthy, fishy smell signals a resource-rich environment. On top of the painted concrete rock formations at the entrance are clumps of moss, spongy and damp to the touch. The real thing. Some of the cedar trees are brown around the edges, lending an air of authenticity to the living exhibit. Water laps to a regular beat in a small pond, coaxed by an unseen force. Around the corner, a child exclaims excitedly that they see penguins. But no, these are Black Guillemot ducks splashing around in the water. We will have to be patient.

An underwater display of Northern Red anemone and common sea stars attracts the interest of serious-looking photographers with very expensive equipment and no children in tow. The creatures would be interesting to touch, but on the glass, there is a picture of a hand with a strike-through. A child flaps their hand in the water, as if daring to plunge their arm in all the way.

Tropical Rainforest

Of all the Biodôme’s ecosystems, the Tropical Rainforest offers the most pleasant exodus from the everyday. Hot and humid, it is teeming with life. Geosmin, that rain on soil smell, fills the nostrils, and the sound of rushing water is hard to ignore. There is a waterfall somewhere, waiting to be discovered. Bright pink birds, orange monkeys, and deep red flowers pop against green, damp foliage, moving with the rhythm of circulating air currents.

Finally, rounding the corner, the source of the sound of rushing water emerges: a waterfall over a constructed grotto. The rainforest can be observed from the recess behind the waterfall, offering a rain-like experience without getting wet. On the main path, a sign advises visitors to look carefully for the sloth high up in the trees, but the animal remains obscured. Going into a dark tunnel again, we can observe, separated by glass, a yellow anaconda and an emerald tree boa, living things that would strike terror in the wild.

Mezzanine

The Mezzanine is accessible via the Tropical Rainforest by going up very long, low-height steps, forcing me to walk as slowly as the mysterious, unseen sloth. On this higher level, parents take a moment to sit while their children dab and swipe at the touchscreens on display. Various interactive exhibits offer a behind-the-scenes glance at the feeding and care practices for the animals. The word “Biomachine” is prominent.

The elevated vantage point of the Mezzanine offers a view of an incomplete simulation: Tucked in behind one of the Laurentian Maple Forest exhibits is a technician working at a desk. Standing on the elevated platform looking down at the Gulf of St. Lawrence, I see little tubes poking out below the platform floor. Suddenly, they emit vapour in a soothing shhhh sound, producing the optimal moisture levels for the ecosystem.

Sub-Polar Regions

Back down on the main level, I enter the Subarctic ecosystem via a long tunnel, its ice wall radiating a chill, illuminated by blue light. The anticipation builds – I remember the penguins being so entertaining last time I was here with my family. The hallway opens to an observation room. Penguins are clustered in small groups as if in conversation, walking awkwardly, or diving into the water. There are Gentoo penguins and Golden-Tinged King penguins. The Northern Rockhopper and Macaroni penguins delight with their ear whiskers that stick out at comical angles.

Around the corner, another ice wall stands, begging to be touched. Ice evokes stillness and awe in this enclosed space. Across the room, rock-like representations look perilous enough to be fun to climb on, but a sign says, “Do not climb.” By the rocks, a board on a stick displays an image of a cube. It represents something, but it is unclear what.

Back for a glimpse of the beaver

I return to the beaver dam, curious to see if the nap has ended. I hear the crowd before I see it, a contented hub of about 12 people gathered around the underwater viewing area. The beaver is swimming, a glorious display of aquatic streamlined grace. Then I hear a shriek, followed by more giggles. A rather large piece of poop has emerged from the beaver’s body and is slowly making its way to the bottom. The beaver continues swimming majestically, unaware of the affront to its dignity, a brown cloud streaming in its wake. It’s a brief moment of unity, with children and adults delighting in this unchoreographed performance.

“It’s Time to Act”

 While the ecosystems are designed to immerse visitors in a multisensory experience, the display on the periphery of the main level is two-dimensional in contrast. Featuring the slogan, “It’s Time to Act,” it consists of a series of text descriptions and images showing people participating in various initiatives to save the planet. Suspended high above the nearby dining area, a striking installation of large letters spells out: “Human beings and the natural world are on a collision course.” These words hover in the air.

Amidst the wide-open spaces, the message fails to alarm. The liberating quality of techno-mediated ecosystems feels more like an invitation to participate in an exciting plan B than an ecologist’s call for protection and preservation. Sights, smells, and sounds all point to a resource-rich environment bursting with life. Maybe we also need to find a way to make a dose of anxiety a part of the sensory ecological experience. If all we do is hope, then a life under glass is all we will have left.

Bibilography

ArchDaily.com. “Biodome Science Museum/Kanva.” https://www.archdaily.com/960966/biodome-science-museum-kanva

Dosen A.S., and Ostwald M.J. “Prospect and Refuge Theory: Constructing a Critical Definition for Architecture and Design.” International Journal of Design in Society, vol. 6, no. 1, 2013, pp. 9–23.

National Film Board of Canada. The Glass Ark. 1994, https://www.nfb.ca/film/glass_ark.