People You’ve Been Before
2024, drawing, installation, ceramic object, dioramas, text, sound
People You’ve Been Before
17.05.2024 - 10.08.2024
Mobius Gallery, Bucharest
I look into people’s homes in the evening as I walk toward my own. I take advantage of the glow from chandeliers, cold neon lights, bedside lamps, the flickering TV—grasping at whatever I can, absorbing details with a kind of hunger. My mind races to map everything in that fraction of a second (really, it’s two or three, but it feels like less), to gather clues, trying desperately to make my glance seem casual—not the semi-desperate staring it actually is inside.
I wonder what it’s like in there. How it smells. Where the secrets hide. What dreams are unfolding for those asleep. In other people’s homes, the air is different, laced with particles of an unknowable DNA—twisted, like a soul caught mid-meditation, or like a spider crushed under a boot by accident.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to walk up, knock on a door, press the handle. The door would swing open with a short, startled cry, revealing something irreversible, raw. We’d shock each other—but also recognize one another.
Then the door would close again, sealing that world away. We wouldn’t say a word, but we’d know: in another life, or maybe even this one, we could have been each other.
—Lea Rasovszky, 2022
17.05.2024 - 10.08.2024
Mobius Gallery, Bucharest
I look into people’s homes in the evening as I walk toward my own. I take advantage of the glow from chandeliers, cold neon lights, bedside lamps, the flickering TV—grasping at whatever I can, absorbing details with a kind of hunger. My mind races to map everything in that fraction of a second (really, it’s two or three, but it feels like less), to gather clues, trying desperately to make my glance seem casual—not the semi-desperate staring it actually is inside.
I wonder what it’s like in there. How it smells. Where the secrets hide. What dreams are unfolding for those asleep. In other people’s homes, the air is different, laced with particles of an unknowable DNA—twisted, like a soul caught mid-meditation, or like a spider crushed under a boot by accident.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to walk up, knock on a door, press the handle. The door would swing open with a short, startled cry, revealing something irreversible, raw. We’d shock each other—but also recognize one another.
Then the door would close again, sealing that world away. We wouldn’t say a word, but we’d know: in another life, or maybe even this one, we could have been each other.
—Lea Rasovszky, 2022