What if it rains?
Because a photograph of my work is the death of my work. My pieces change with the humidity, the time of day, the number of people in the room. A digital file is fixed. It is a corpse. I want my art to be a rumor. You hear about it from a friend. You walk three kilometers to a warehouse. You sign a waiver. You enter a room alone. That journey—the search —is part of the piece. rie tachikawa interview full
Because they recognized it. That cup—it had a hairline crack. The tape was yellowed, brittle. It looked like someone had tried to fix it in a hurry and then simply... left it. When you walk into a pristine white cube gallery, you are an observer. When you walk into a room where a teacup is floating above you, you become a trespasser. You ask: Who lived here? Why did they leave this? That question is the artwork. Not the cup. What if it rains
That sounds maddeningly meticulous.