Sometimes I forget he is no longer there.
Sometimes they push him away.
Sometimes they change him.
Memories arise when I am not looking for them.
When I am looking for them, they are nowhere to be found.
A large object is standing in an exhibition space by itself. It’s a little higher than a human being and three times as wide. Yet it is subtle, almost insubstantial, due to its main material: glass. A rough steel frame encloses a translucent photographic print on a glass plate. One can guess that it is a photograph because of the visible borders of the negative. You can see straight through it, though. There is a person in the photograph; that much is clear. In order to make out more, you search your references and recollections. You have to look carefully. It is hard to see who it is. It might be some one you’ve known and lost. You might take some steps backwards, some steps forwards. When you get close you see yourself reflected back to you. When you move around the work you notice how its visibility depends on the white wall behind it. Without it, there is only the steel frame and the construction that ensures the plate remains standing. When you walk around it, everything around it literally becomes part of the work. Without the white wall neither photograph nor person can be seen. The space and its visitors intervene. The subject remains invisible to such a degree that he himself is not really there. What we see is merely an echo of his presence. While the viewer attempts to see more of this echo, she will inevitably also see herself reflected. Thereby she becomes part of the work. It is not clear where the work ends and the viewer begins.