A mother walks down a long hallway carrying a strawberry birthday cake, frosted white. 37 candles lit. When she reaches her son, standing with his back to the wall, she blows the candles out.
Robert Yerachmiel Sniderman and Benjamin M. Johnson
No door through which to enter, no door through which to leave. No visible light source, but there is light. It comes from everywhere. A body is sleeping on a platform, a white cloth over its face. impossible to know race, age, gender, whether sick or well. Rise and fall of the chest, a slight flutter at the edge of the cloth.
In an adjacent room sits anyone’s father, an old man. You can enter this room form one of six doors. No matter by which door you enter, you will confront only his back. No matter by which door you leave. From the angle of his head and the slight lift of his shoulders you can tell that he is listening to you as you come and go.
Live birds glued to all four walls by their feet. A grid of birds from floor to ceiling, all around.
In the spaces between, bright circles of wet red paint (reapplied hourly). As the birds furiously flap, their wingtips dip and smear.
A moving red mass that cries.
A dirt floor, the walls of a cage laid flat under the rooting light of the sun. A girl’s face and torso projected onto the far wall. You want to enter this room without touching anything, but this is impossible. Your presence, most of all, a discharge.
The room is dirty. You want it dirty. The walls are smudged. You like them that way.
The girl’s hand-motions imitate precisely the hand-motions of the President giving a speech about the war, though in fact, she’s only describing the activities of her mother in the bathroom.
Her eyes blink. Her eyes are clear. Is she the “victim” of this room or its angel?
In which the body of the eleven-year-old girl, drowned off Long Island Sound, is returned to her father. He lowers his hands from his face.
The room is not draped, lit, or in any way decorated.
An outdoor installation. We install the tall doors outdoors. Thirty doors open out to the out. Thirty open in to the out. In all, sixty tall doors installed in the outdoors. Doors arranged in a range of angles, in a range of ways. Sway out sway in, doors in a wind. To be moved through and through again.
A small bit of chocolate drops down inside your sweater
On the wall, a chart details the acceleration and deceleration of salmon swimming against a current at the beginning of a Saturday in the spring.
A moss grows on the roof, a mold on the ceiling. There are objects in the room, but they aren’t important. I could name them, but you already know what they are because they are your objects. The oven is stuffed with bread that rises and never stops rising. But I don't need to tell you what’s in the oven; you put it there.
I’ve never been outside. The chair I’m in is my own body, just the part I can’t feel, says the voiceover.
Robert Yerachmiel Sniderman and Nina Berfelde
Everyone who enters this room must pick up a very heavy stone from a diminishing pile. These stones are so large that people need two hands to carry them. Various methods of carrying: close to the chest, on one shoulder, held low and swinging in front. Each person must carry their stone to the other side of the room where they will place it on a growing pile. And then, they can leave.
Installation featuring illegibly tiny handwriting on mirrors.
In the center of the room, a spacecraft designed only for probing—its long blue solar-panel wings, its insect-like body, at rest. Dozens of bats dart through the darkened room. On all four walls: the filmed history of the sun—from birth to death—on loop.