“The line is a whole, an identity, for a particular place and time.” —Fred Sandback The room is defined by stark white walls, with the ceiling and floor crafted from concrete — its grey hue resembling the mist of fog. Sunlight floods the space through large windows on one side, illuminating the hall’s expansive volume, which is interrupted by a solitary wall bisecting the area. Within this space, drawings appear — crafted in the air itself, forms suspended as volumes of aether. Geometric shapes, pristine and untouched, manifest in the emptiness between surfaces. As one moves through the room, the act of walking becomes a meditation on perspective. It is as though the mind is unmoored, unable to retain its grasp on stable concepts. The realization there is only a certain amount of control one can have over a situation. Thin threads of knitting yarn — delicate, taut, and almost fragile — stretch across the room, demarcating zones, parallelograms, triangles, quadrants. They hold barely together, as if on the verge of disintegration. These threads exist in the precise moment before the dissolution of form; a point where all ideas inevitably unravel. There is an assertion of space here, of volume and place, yet without possession. The space is neither claimed nor concealed.
It simply is — existing and non-existing at once. The boundaries of shape and dimension blur, becoming ambiguous and transient. Being in a place and being a place, simultaneously. The universe is not a distillation. It is not a reflection of anything beyond itself. It simply is — pure fact, without reference or hierarchy. No instance of a system or order larger than itself. Except, perhaps, the existence of a parallel. Here and now, space and time are contained within sound, drawing itself into existence. Occam’s razor eliminates everything that is not line, cutting through the white cube as though emerging from an a priori ephemeral, shifting diffusion of perceptual poetry.

— Sven Schlijper-Karssenberg