Timelapse documentation over the span of one day:
“i run to liquids and colors,” she said, “but you, you may run to something else.” ¹
This piece began as a poetic study of a scientific fact: Colors do not exist in the outside world, they exist in our minds as a translation of visible wavelengths of light. My red may actually be different than your red. Just as my understanding of this situation may be different than yours.
Sight says too many things at one time.
Being does not see itself. Perhaps it listens to itself.
It does not stand out, it is not bordered by nothingness: one is never sure of finding or of
finding it solid, when one approaches a center of being. And if we want to determine man’s
being, we are never sure of being closer to ourselves if we “withdraw” into ourselves, if we
move toward the center of the spiral; for often it is in the heart of being that being is
errancy. Sometimes it is in being outside itself that tests consistencies. Sometimes too, it is
closed in, as it were, on the outside.²
When I first saw this little room it was being used as a closet, piled high with artworks, cabinets, frames and random objects with nowhere else to go. But how strange, I thought, for a closet to have a skylight.
But outside, everything is immeasurable.
And when the level rises outside, it also rises in you, not in the vessels that are partially
controlled by you, or in the phlegm of your most unimpressionable organs: but it grows in
the capillary veins, draw upward into the furthermost most branches of your infinitely