Here, and everywhere else is a place you enter but cannot fully inhabit.
It is a fractured geography. A body that exists in pieces. A sentence interrupted.
It is what remains when home becomes a thought, not a place.
It is a fractured geography. A body that exists in pieces. A sentence interrupted.
It is what remains when home becomes a thought, not a place.
The space holds stillness like a wound.
It waits.
You are the foreign object inside it.
It waits.
You are the foreign object inside it.
There is no center. Only displacement.
Every step echoes off the architecture of not-belonging.
Every wall reminds you: you are somewhere, and nowhere.
Every step echoes off the architecture of not-belonging.
Every wall reminds you: you are somewhere, and nowhere.
This is not a representation of exile.
This is exile.
This is what it feels like to be the echo instead of the voice.
To be the margin. The shadow. The after.
This is exile.
This is what it feels like to be the echo instead of the voice.
To be the margin. The shadow. The after.
The work invites no comfort. No translation.
It insists you sit with confusion. With dislocation. With the gravity of elsewhere.
You are asked to carry the weight of memory in your spine.
To breathe slower. To remember a version of yourself that never quite arrived.
It insists you sit with confusion. With dislocation. With the gravity of elsewhere.
You are asked to carry the weight of memory in your spine.
To breathe slower. To remember a version of yourself that never quite arrived.
Here, and everywhere else continues Hammoud Radwan’s search for a language that does not exist.
A language made of air, of silence, of suspended time.
This is not a sculpture.
It is a border you cross with your body.
A language made of air, of silence, of suspended time.
This is not a sculpture.
It is a border you cross with your body.