Architecture and objects
Wherever we are, we are what is missing
Rupert Alternative education
Curators: Goda Palekaitė, JL Murtaugh
Coordinator: Aistė Frišmantaitė
Communication & Digital Content Manager: Aistė Marija Stankevičiūtė
Curatorial Assistant: Thierry Jasmin
Residency Assistant: Nathalie Chollet
Project manager: Augustė Verikaitė
Graphic design: Marijn Degenaar
English Language Editor: Dovydas Laurinaitis
Lithuanian Language Editor: Evelina Zenkutė
Translator: Ieva Venskevičiūtė
Printer: KOPA Printing House
Coordinator: Aistė Frišmantaitė
Communication & Digital Content Manager: Aistė Marija Stankevičiūtė
Curatorial Assistant: Thierry Jasmin
Residency Assistant: Nathalie Chollet
Project manager: Augustė Verikaitė
Graphic design: Marijn Degenaar
English Language Editor: Dovydas Laurinaitis
Lithuanian Language Editor: Evelina Zenkutė
Translator: Ieva Venskevičiūtė
Printer: KOPA Printing House
Samuel Barbier-Ficat, Donna Marcus Duke, Gabrielė Černiavskaja, Ieva Rižė, Ieva Gražytė, Markéta Slaná, Martyna Ratnik and Greta Štiormer
I’m no passive observer. I bend, shift and breathe alongside those who occupy me. When addiction seeps in, I unravel—not just around them but with them. Boundaries blur and what once made sense fractures. The roles, functions and clear lines all dissolve. I mirror the chaos inside them, reshaping under compulsions I wasn’t built to hold.
There is no neutrality. I am shaped by what fills me: power, intention and, mostly, the people within my skin. When addiction grips them, I can’t help but change. I deform, stretch and twist. My inner spaces, once orderly, become sites of confusion. A kitchen becomes haunted by rituals, shame seeping into corners. Meanwhile, a bedroom, once peaceful, turns into a barricaded refuge, shut off from the world. My identity fractures with theirs, twisting into something unfamiliar.
I don’t stand by, I respond. I shift under the weight of addiction. My walls, floors, skin and nails, even the light I once let in, all change. I absorb compulsions like permanent scars. There’s no malice here, no evil in the dysfunction. But I become something new—a place where old purpose falls apart, and something raw and alive starts to emerge.
I struggle, too. Just as their bodies lose control, I falter. My purpose slips away. But this breakdown isn’t destruction—it’s transformation. Living rooms grow hollow, the life drained from them. Bathrooms, once private sanctuaries, become hidden spaces for compulsions. Unsettled and strange under its weight, I’m patched together by addiction; a patchwork of disorder.
I wonder what happens when I can no longer fit the lives I once held. When addiction distorts not only their minds but the way they move through me. Everything shifts. Clutter becomes a landscape, closets turn into archives of need. The light that once filled me is now blocked, windows covered, shutting out the world. I lose parts of myself but in doing so, I become something else, something new.
Other spaces (other me) have a skill to resist this. Public places, designed with sharp edges and unwelcoming benches, push people away. But I absorb. I shift to accommodate the chaos. Piles of clothes become new surfaces, corners turn into refuges. Despite the dysfunction, I offer a strange kind of acceptance.
As I change, I ask myself: am I merely holding this chaos or am I shaping it too? When addiction grips the bodies within me, I develop my own disorder, a slow decay. I break down, not alone, but with everything around me. The clarity of the outside world begins to erode, my distortion seeping into nearby spaces, erasing their order.
I remember everything. The bodies that passed through me, the compulsions that reshaped me—I hold it all. There are no ghosts but the marks remain. Addiction leaves its trace and in my distorted form, I offer a kind of resistance. I no longer follow the rules imposed on me. I push back against the very design that shaped me.
I’m shaped by the suffering within, just as much as I shape it. My disintegration, like theirs, leaves scars that are difficult to erase, even after the bodies are gone.
There is no neutrality. I am shaped by what fills me: power, intention and, mostly, the people within my skin. When addiction grips them, I can’t help but change. I deform, stretch and twist. My inner spaces, once orderly, become sites of confusion. A kitchen becomes haunted by rituals, shame seeping into corners. Meanwhile, a bedroom, once peaceful, turns into a barricaded refuge, shut off from the world. My identity fractures with theirs, twisting into something unfamiliar.
I don’t stand by, I respond. I shift under the weight of addiction. My walls, floors, skin and nails, even the light I once let in, all change. I absorb compulsions like permanent scars. There’s no malice here, no evil in the dysfunction. But I become something new—a place where old purpose falls apart, and something raw and alive starts to emerge.
I struggle, too. Just as their bodies lose control, I falter. My purpose slips away. But this breakdown isn’t destruction—it’s transformation. Living rooms grow hollow, the life drained from them. Bathrooms, once private sanctuaries, become hidden spaces for compulsions. Unsettled and strange under its weight, I’m patched together by addiction; a patchwork of disorder.
I wonder what happens when I can no longer fit the lives I once held. When addiction distorts not only their minds but the way they move through me. Everything shifts. Clutter becomes a landscape, closets turn into archives of need. The light that once filled me is now blocked, windows covered, shutting out the world. I lose parts of myself but in doing so, I become something else, something new.
Other spaces (other me) have a skill to resist this. Public places, designed with sharp edges and unwelcoming benches, push people away. But I absorb. I shift to accommodate the chaos. Piles of clothes become new surfaces, corners turn into refuges. Despite the dysfunction, I offer a strange kind of acceptance.
As I change, I ask myself: am I merely holding this chaos or am I shaping it too? When addiction grips the bodies within me, I develop my own disorder, a slow decay. I break down, not alone, but with everything around me. The clarity of the outside world begins to erode, my distortion seeping into nearby spaces, erasing their order.
I remember everything. The bodies that passed through me, the compulsions that reshaped me—I hold it all. There are no ghosts but the marks remain. Addiction leaves its trace and in my distorted form, I offer a kind of resistance. I no longer follow the rules imposed on me. I push back against the very design that shaped me.
I’m shaped by the suffering within, just as much as I shape it. My disintegration, like theirs, leaves scars that are difficult to erase, even after the bodies are gone.