The Museum of Time
Every day, we're redefining time: measuring the distance of a walk or commute in time, that socially awkward moment on a Monday or Friday, climate anomalies causing red maples to arrive early and fade late, the tense of making a takeaway coffee, the excessively long summer days in Europe, the timezone of late-night runs along riverbanks or tracks, the time difference making long-distance relationships between New Zealand and France so difficult. Time in its myriad forms, time in the plural, a museum of time. I love contemplating how artists think about time: spinning, leaping, with eyes closed; sometimes between waking and sleeping, but more often, collecting time itself.
Author林人中台北藝術節策展人、旅法藝術家。因為工作經常往返於各種時區，熱切追求當代藝術與表演的時代感。主攻Live Art、舞蹈、酷兒文化、文化行動主義及跨領域展演。現亦為印尼舞蹈節共同策展人、里昂舞蹈雙年展客座策展人，並擔任多項國際藝術交流計畫與獎項之主持人、評審或顧問。
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Those irreversible slices of life
Recently, in a novel I've come to love, I found myself grasping the weight of life's slices. In the story, there is a wicked sorcerer who freezes people in the instant just before tragedy strikes—suspending everything, sealing it into a crystal ball, and building an entire museum from these frozen moments. And isn't film, in its own way, just as cruel? As viewers, we are little more than instruments for collecting tissue slices—slipping into a character's world for a single fleeting moment, wandering through it in passing, only to return, in the blink of an eye, to the reality that is our own.