GALLERÝ GRÓTTA. 2025​

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 We no longer speak of the forest, but of the space around it. It’s not a tree, but a shape, a form that now belongs to this room, this quiet geography. What was once rooted, belonging to the earth, becomes displaced. A tree, an identity—now lost between forms, between uses. The land no longer speaks of what it was but of what it can provide. Timber, wood, hard wood. The wood breathes in harmony with the air, and in its stillness, it becomes something new. It offers no destination, no memory of where it came from. It is neither here nor there, but somewhere in between. Now it reflects the shape of the room more than the shape of the forest. Perhaps, when the wood meets the floor, it remembers the forest.

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It is as if the objects have been moved a little, are beginning to understand the shape of the space they occupy in the room. Their forms are not defined. They could be trees or rocks or anything the earth leaves behind. Their texture is impalpable and their form - gentle, curved, as if the words trees and timber have touched them. The curves of the shapes change slightly, imperceptibly, as if they are responding to some unseen language, some silent pull at the edges of their form. 

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The walls, too, have learned something. Perhaps it was never spoken aloud, but the idea of a wall has entered the room, pressing itself into the material in a way that is both imperceptible and lasting. The edges of the walls soften, just a little, as though the word wall has altered their geometry. The space between the wall and the room feels more defined now. It’s as if the walls, without anyone pressing on them, have started to lean a little, to settle a little more comfortably into their corners. 

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The room, now, was full of these words—bowl, shape, wood, gap—each word sitting like a subtle weight on the things it described. The room seems to hold something in between, in the space between these objects—between these words. But there are things that no one can really tell what are, although, some of them resemble bowls that have been neatly stacked, with a small space between them, so that you can breathe between them. Bowls is the word that comes to mind when your eyes touch them. Not because they are bowls, but because there is always something you think you know about things. Everything is heavy in this room, not because anything is moving, but because this place has absorbed something unknown—things that merge into nothingness, but as the light travelled and the air shifted, the things continued their conversation. There is the faintest pull, a barely perceptible tightening in the space between the shapes, as if the word gap carried with it a weight far older than its use here. The space bends slightly, the walls lean toward something that isn’t quite there. The bowls rest in the breath between them, the shapes settle into place, and the space around them holds its breath and waits for the next word, the next quiet movement. It is not a location, but a place between places, not just objects, but a drift between what we know and what we do not fully understand.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​