The exhibition acts as a double exposure—two distant artistic worlds sharing the same air without ever fully merging. The spatial architecture does not claim solidity here; instead, it lingers somewhere between surface and structure. Paper walls rise lightly from a visible wowen wooden grid, less as partitions than as traces of holding. Their rhythm recalls Kazimiera’s eaving rather than building, a slowly assembled lines that feel temporary, attentive. The choice of starched paper is both practical and ethical: a modest material asked to do more than it should, echoing Kazimiera Zimblytė’s belief that intensity does not require excess, only care, as well as brief link to starched potato sacks.
Within this soft framework, Rose Lowder’s films gather in darker pockets—small chambers of light and pulsation—where moving images flicker like afterimages behind closed eyes. These cinematic capsules are not fully sealed intentionally; their glow seeps through seams, gaps between paper layers, staining nearby surfaces with rhythm and color. Motion leaks into stillness. Film settles into texture.
The space behaves like fabric rather than architecture: porous, layered, slightly unstable and beamer light becomes a material that drifts, stains, and accumulates. The exhibition does not insist on clarity or hierarchy. Instead, it invites a kind of lingering between a conversation that never happened.