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Liu Hojang, studio view on the book launch premixed cement ⇋ works on paper (2018),, Taipei, 2018.



Crossing the Corridor

I was given a trace as trivial as another hashtag on Instagram, and I decided to reconstruct the following scene to unlearn the meaning of seeing and seeking. 

There is an artificial island in the middle of the room, and it makes the rest no more than corridors. Our movement will be limited to a certain extent; we would lose some freedom. We can pass by it but can’t walk through it. Such spatial-temporal plane sits on its own particular volume to draw boundaries of functionality and beauty for the sake of display. Our sights will be orchestrated. We are pressed to dance. With the new bodily restriction, across the island, a man would look like another object. We can almost identify those standing objects as men. There is a secret exchange of breaths. There are special contacts. There is a new circulation. It feels like someone just swop your glasses. It’s nearly impossible to contemplate on the entire shape of the island. It requires something a bit extra. Oh, and it smells intoxicating. 

The island says, “I am the mirror of the room. Read me, inside out, thoroughly. So you won’t be fooled by superficiality. My surface is smooth and shallow, but I contain more of the invisible than the visible.” Flickers of bronze light casted on the shinning top are calling for the next track.   

This island is contagious, and can even turn you sick in a strange indulgence. And I’m now concerned how this space can still work when the island is here. I am thinking how this space is actually always bigger than the island.

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