Unveil the blue velvet curtain, walk in
Door sign # 4 4 4
Shower curtain in a blue carpeted room, scented with sea salt
Abandonded shelves, vertical blinds and swimming loop
Parallax overlaying video: warning text from a swimming loop
Stacked wine glasses in a blue carpeted room
Vertical blinds luminated in twillight blue
Store room, concrete angels and swimming loop
Water dripping from drop ceiling, hand drawn grid trash bag
Confetti in water tank
An intervention - 4 4 4 / 2016
Curated by Enoch Cheng
British playwright Sarah Kane once wrote in her play 4.48 Psychosis: "It is myself I have never met, whose face is pasted on the underside of my mind."
If there is God, and if she believes in God, this should be her prayer: I know there is nothing I can say because words are a kind of codes. In order to interpret their meaning, one has to understand their system: the combination of texts, grammars, punctuations, intonations and so on.
Thus, I cannot ask for what I need with words. I try. With my limited wisdom, I try to understand, and then, explain what I need: such as having a good sleep.
Sometimes, I wake up at 4.48. I heard that it is the time when the mind is most lucid. That clear moment scares me because I cannot judge if I am really utilizing my time at that moment.
I know it is better to go back to sleep. But sometimes after sleeping for 8 hours, I still feel similar to how I am before I sleep: stale.
I have tried to search online for ways to sleep well: 4 0 4.
I have only found pragmatic methods, but not how to sleep: 4 0 4.
When sleeping, I am in the space where I have no system to get hold of myself. My shape, my body, my heart are out outside of me. But this out-of-myself feeling seems to feel more solid than when I am awake. I sometimes find it hard to say how I exist as I am awake.
If I’m unsure about how I exist during my waking days, what am I supposed to seek as I pray?
4 4 4.
Recently, as I turn my head, incidentally I’d find my watch, the clock on the wall, or the digital clock at the corner of the computer screen all seem to remind me of something: for a quiet moment, I am still. There is a group of three identical numbers. These three numbers are not code of words. They don’t represent the time in the afternoon or the night. They form a space without words. I try to describe what that space is. I try to do that because I can come closer to the person who I call “me”, the “me” in the midst of forming.
Everyday, every hour, every moment, every second, I am forming –
I know there is nothing I can ask for, I can only give myself to you.
I return 4–4–4
Text: Enoch Cheng
* * *