I continue to reflect on the concept for my final exhibition performance. One of my recent ideas involved inviting my daughters to participate, since they will be traveling with me. I sketched a few rough drafts, imagining how we might appear together, moving among the art objects. Yet at this moment, none of these ideas feel fully right. Still, I find it important to record them:
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We unravel a ball of red yarn as we move in a circle — a slow, repetitive motion symbolizing the cycle of the seasons and the quiet persistence of labor. At each corner of the carpet, our movements shift, becoming more refined and ceremonial, representing the four major festivals — moments where time itself seems to pause.
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Beside the carpet, we cut the red yarn into small pieces, shaping the fragments into figures that mirror the motifs embroidered on the carpet. We arrange them in a circle, then, after a while, gather the yarn back together — also moving in a circular rhythm.
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Each of us is engaged in a different quiet task. I move around the carpet with the red yarn, weaving paths but often pausing, distracted for a moment by one daughter or the other — a reflection of the natural interruptions and gentle chaos of care and connection.
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My daughters wear costumes similar to mine, with simple masks. They remain mostly still, present as silent witnesses, while I perform alone — slowly unraveling a large ball of red yarn. From within the heart of the yarn, I eventually uncover a small golden egg.
What draws me most is the idea of creating a rhythm of slow, repetitive actions, interrupted by moments of ritual significance — a way to embody the endless renewal of the seasons and the deep, feminine connection to labor, storytelling, and wisdom-sharing across generations.
I am inspired by the atmosphere of folk tales — the humble, everyday wisdom they carry, distinct from the polished world of literary elites.
As the old woman in The Golden Ass by Apuleius says, “Let me tell you a story to make you feel a little better.”
It is this spirit — the tradition of women exchanging stories in safe, homely spaces — that I wish to evoke: a room where time softens, and quiet truths are passed from hand to hand.
However, yesterday I realized that layering a performance onto my installation might overload the work with too many meanings. At this moment, I am leaning towards not performing during the opening. Perhaps, quietly, on one of the exhibition days, only for the camera — allowing the gesture to remain gentle, intimate, and woven into the fabric of the space.
