By constructing a space and recreating it through non-fiction writing, will that space completely disappear even if it is burned down by fire?
If we were faced with the boundless expanse of space, we wouldn't feel embraced, but rather plunged into a zero-gravity gap. However, when we slice through past scenes, the "heartbeats, surprises, gratitude, dreams" attached to them, and confront these emotional clues, along with the changes of a certain period, we have the opportunity to trace and reinterpret them, creating a dramatic turn of events. Then, something that once belonged to you reappears, and the moment of transformed carrier and dislocated memory arrives. Suddenly, you understand that the object that has carried so many people, including yourself, and that has led to specific paths of use and the fermentation of culture over time, has become a container for us.
The container is transformed into a long poem by the narrative; we see the space, and then we see all the moving relationships and dynamic connections:
As the doors lingered, the air permeated the building, like a backstage theater performance—the moment before the curtains rose, the audience, though unable to see or hear, could sense the surging sounds and shadows, aware that the actors had taken their positions, the props had been arranged, and the show was about to begin. Los Angeles's first public library opened in 1859, and its doors had been opened countless times since then. Yet, each time the guard shouted, "Open the Library," the air would stir, a sense of something significant about to happen—a show about to begin.
Below each chapter number, she would select a few books and create the core meaning of the chapter by slightly moving the book titles.
In addition to responding to the chapter names, those books are also like other books that meet each other inexplicably when you are browsing the library shelves.
Objects are next to objects, words are next to words, objects are connected, words are dependent on each other, so the road will never end.