I am in a room that without windows has no windows, there are four chairs, a light switch on the wall that flicks but fails to work.
There is a plug socket in the corner and a shelving unit on the left side of this box room: it showcases the tools and equipment of super 8 film. On top of that there is an angle poise lamp from the 80s. The dim light bounces off the wall and produces a colour of the sunset. Everything has been put together in the most considered way.
I am in a projection room.
I am a projectionist, for now.
I am not alone. There are two voices: a man and a woman talks every now and then, their conversations overlap each other. Neither of them knows that the other exists but their soothing voices seem to be in harmony.
The reaction of the viewers varies; some walked to the door and felt they had interrupted something (while I was playing the film); some showed enthusiasm about the interactive performance; some poked their heads in then ran away.
There are no days and no nights in this room, only voices and moving pictures will be there until it lasts.
text by Joyce Ho