1.
One day last summer, I was loitering around the studio as usual, without any particular task in mind. I came across a long strip of leftover rubber from my previous exhibition. I rolled up this thin piece of it and tied it into a ribbon shape using a thinner strip of the same material. It was a color somewhere between brown and coral, and I found myself staring at this rubber roll for a long time, charmed by the smooth, slack elasticity of the material. As I gazed at this utterly unremarkable rubber roll, I tried to understand what it is about this that excites me so much?
Not just this rubber roll, I realize I love all kinds of rolls. There’s an inexplicable joy in looking at neatly coiled forms. Rolls of paper, toilet paper, carpets, tape... Anything soft and thin can be rolled up. I imagine the moment these rolled objects unravelling and rolling across the floor, stretching out into a straight line. Unfurling too quickly to catch up, occupying space and leaving behind inscrutable marks. Rolls hold the potential for infinite lines and infinitely expanding spaces. From here to there, perhaps even farther, rolling endlessly over and beyond. A room next to a room, next to another room, and the corridor in between, stretching and twisting. A carpet rolling from the far right end of a hallway to the far left, endlessly. Something like that I see when I see a roll.
2.
Modern Odradek
There are things so common around us that, paradoxically, we become unaware of them. Their presence is so subtle that they fade into the surface of the wall, blend seamlessly with the asphalt on the ground, or hide in the folded edge where the wall meets the floor in some distant corner.
Have you ever asked them, even once, where they came from? Why they are shaped the way they are, and why they are just there, without even a greeting? Why are you here right now? Why are you pretending not to care, or acting as if you expect no attention, hiding next to countless replicas of yourself? I find myself drawn to things that seek no attention. I have so many questions to ask them. I want them to tell their stories— what time, minute, and second they arrived in this world. Where they’ve traveled, what they’ve seen. Whether they were in the third box in the left corner of some transport truck, or perhaps the fourth, on their way to be here. Did you ever guess that your thin, long edge would eventually touch the wall of my home? Or, if you don’t want to answer, at least tell me this. Is the reason you stay so silent because all of this is some kind of secret that shouldn’t be revealed, or is it simply because you just don’t feel like talking?
3.
Omnipresent Landscape
The landscape begins right beneath my feet. Sometimes I move toward the landscape, and other times it comes toward me, though never too close. It expands and contracts, back and forth. I wish landscapes had texture, something I could touch to remember them better. I can touch objects, or run my hand over my skin, but a landscape remains untouchable. A distant image I can only gaze at from beyond that gap. The image stretches endlessly, folding and unfolding, creating an anonymous space. I imagine my body shrinking to the size of an ant or growing as tall as a building, standing within that anonymous space. Even when I was there, however, the landscape wasn’t here with me. Constantly looking inwards and outwards, the ant sees the landscape of an ant, and the building sees the landscape of a building.
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