Janja Kosi

I visited it—once, then again, and again.
Each visit unfolded within its spatial logic; my movement was not my own, but guided by its arrangement.
Though I approached it as one approaches a site—to be seen, consumed, perhaps captured—it resisted this gaze. It was not an object of sight, but of presence.

I observed. I recorded. Not facts, but situations. Conditions I perceived as singular to it—contingencies that gave it specificity, made it speak.
It did not demand attention, yet it held it. Its ordinariness became its most insistent quality.

These moments began to accumulate, shifting into an archive: photographs, sketches, notes, drawings, paintings.
But none of these representations aspire to completeness. I fold the drawings. I do not hang the paintings—they remain leaned, provisional.
They are not images of a place, but objects from it—fragments that assert their own spatiality. Shadows confirm their bodies. Presence detached from origin.

What remains is a framework—a skeletal trace.
Something else begins to take shape. Not a duplication, nor a mirror, but a spatial deviation.
An emergent site. Or perhaps: an other of site. A space constituted by its own internal logic, irreducible to reference.

We move through it, yet never fully arrive.
We are situated in a non-place—one that appears to serve us, yet unfolds autonomously.
It does not host us. It persists alongside us.