minuscule movements

by Helena Turgel

Sat here on the inside but with the doors wide open, it doesn’t quite feel like being inside. But not outside either.  

It has been cold in this chapel since the start, but when we first arrived you could step outside the front doors for a few moments of generous October sun. Autumn, that season between.  In November we couldn’t rely on the heat of the sun, it suddenly became colder outside than in, heaters arrived and the way we positioned ourselves shifted slightly to accommodate the small white boxes.  

Sat near the doorway looking out at the street you are somehow much more aware of the turning of the earth than back in office bound real life. Aside from the drop in temperature, there are the tidal reminders: the rise and fall of the neighbouring canal. And, of course, the shifting light.  

At first the light bounced carelessly around the highest parts of the room, this week the sun lands heavily on the terrazzo floor and reflects so fiercely that it’s blinding for a few moments. On the first day it happened, a man with an enormous smile and an air of mischief said, ‘yes, but it would make a great photo!’      

I think about the various ways in which my existence at present operates within a liminal space. A collateral event, part but apart from the biennale. A temporary job, living here but only for a short time, away from life as usual, everything suspended, on hold. The time between the visitors, waiting.

A funny place where normal routines are disrupted, making the space for your mind to behave differently; you notice things you might not otherwise. Like minuscule movements that add up to the turning of the earth.