[Cam  Han]

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New York 
2025-2026 I find myself indoors...

Wandering through sharp corridors that turn into themselves, everywhere a dead-end; a living labyrinth populated by false exits as space and the objects therein distort to form unfamiliar corners. Walking in its body, or mine (for this is indeed my body). Being led by my walking, eyes pulled by the lateral gravity of vision. Colors estranged, missing segments of a spectrum, some untraceable gap in composition. In want of lacking. Floating dust awaits the subject, a precise point of attachment, the tracing out of desire as it envelopes her body: “Why, I have never anything to do. I am always free, and I always will be free if you want me.”1

Settled in a corner, the surrounding wall a megaphone, a site comes in focus; leaving the only invisible part, the corner itself, behind me, occupied by my shadow. My back rubs against its skin. The extension of the camera bellows like a vacuum cleaner, sucks in the dust of forgotten selves now scattered together, decades of coming and going condensed into that fulfilling smell of emptiness. I want to touch and collect these residuals. An ultimate act of voyeurism of defiant objects, in which the desired being is absent. A maze into which I am voluntarily lost, desiring to see and to penetrate realities slow and indescribably detailed in dye clouds of the undead.

The main thing is the dust, matter out of place, not the body; It is photography, not the photographed which has me entranced…The trigger kills with two clicks, doden, the dark slide like the blade of a guillotine. Slicing away something essential, vision of that which was not meant to be seen, afterhours, after time…"less of a noise than anything else that moves, like the hand of a clock, like the shadow of the hand of a clock, like time itself."2

They gathers at night, little pieces of ourselves. Dead skin, fallen hair, drift then congregate into layers of copulating emptiness. The sleeping bodies of these rooms, clocks ticking away with no one there to watch, so that time passing becomes spatial, measured in thicknesses of collected dust—decay at a satisfying and comfortingly slow rate, the walls peel, the posters droop. Breathing in the dust unsettled by my intrusion, becoming adrift once more before landing again; becoming part of this entity, it embodies me like the camera obscura that devours its user: I dare not use a dark cloth. These unending rooms, ever multiplying and unfolding like the laying flat of the intestines of some great monster.

We are free at last
“but he isn’t inside it, and there is no outside”3
“It is good to say it out loud: ‘Nothing happened.’ Once more: ‘Nothing happened.’Does that help at all?”4
"that their life is winding down, connected to nothing at all, like a clock in an empty room"5
“meaning seems to dissolve into nothing when we follow it through”6
“The clock shows us the time. What time is, is not yet settled. And as regards the point of time—that doesn’t come in here.”7
“this game, as any other game, had its basic rule: Nothing was to happen”8
“to let myself drop somewhere outside of language, into the inert, and in a sense, quite simply, to sit down"9
“no more than a dust of figures stirring according to an unpredictable order, like a fly buzzing in a room”9



1. Proust, Marcel. Swann's Way.
2. Rilke, Rainer Maria. The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.
3. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Philosophical Investigations.
4. Rilke. op. cit.
5. Ibid.
6. Wittgenstein. op. cit.
7. Ibid.
8. Baudrillard, Jean. Please Follow Me.
9. Barthes, Roland. A Lover's Discourse.


©Yujian Han 2026 Hanyujian.cam@gmail.com