In-Betweens 中间帧
How much of an ordinary day do we keep?
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The carousel keeps turning.
Children arrive and leave. Seasons pass. The world beyond its circle shifts and changes. Yet the ride continues, tracing the same familiar path over and over again.
Suspended between motion and stillness, the carousel becomes a place untouched by urgency, a small orbit where departures and arrivals seem to coexist.
Round and round.
A tooth remembers.
What breaks does not return to what it was. Around it, moments collect quietly, some worn smooth by time, others still sharp at the edges.
The years continue. The traces remain.
I must have fallen asleep.
The balloons are still in my hand. Somewhere nearby, the cat is playing.
Everything is quiet. I wonder what will wake me up.
One by one, boats make their way across the river.
Halfway over, I decide to stop. I lower my fishing line into the water and watch the others drift farther away.
The river keeps moving. So does everyone else.
I think I’ll stay here a little longer. Guess how many fish I’ll catch today.
The swing moves back and forth.
For a moment, I look behind me. A familiar afternoon stretches across the ground, still moving somewhere between sunlight and shadow.
The seat rises. The ropes pull tight.
Mom is always just one swing away.
Note: This work and the following two were created in response to the loss of people important to me. I chose not to give them descriptive titles or explanations, leaving space for the audience to experience them in their own way. Each work is titled simply with the date it was completed.
Memory flows like a film, each frame holding a quiet moment: the joy of childhood, the warmth of love, the happiness of the first pet, the excitement of the newborn baby. These fragments drift gently past, held not by measure, but by meaning.