MARJA SALEVA

ROOOOM is a space that has been dislodged. A place that won’t settle down. It is a feverish attempt to decipher and sharpen, to draw out an invisible history.

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Pictures cut out of a family album have burnt out highlights, sentences disguise themselves, a voice hides. Someone is moving the walls. Someone breathes through a wall. The lightness surrounding everything crosses the room like a ghost or a knife. Every detail is stored.

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Language becomes an image, an image a sound, a sound a language, and vice versa.

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Everyone is looking for their coordinates.

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Nameless things rain through the roof. They have been inscribed with all that never happened.