Amid the quickening variations of society, the countryside has become a small line of text quietly pushed to the margin, gradually overlaid by the city’s glare. “Compressed modernity” is not an abstract term; it unfolds concretely and coolly on swept dirt roads, in sealed door seams, and in ponds about to be filled. As many indigenous residents turn toward the city, the tools and traces of rural life have their edges worn down by time. Along this compressed timeline, I try to gather fragments still warm to the touch—elements abandoned yet saturated with the marks of living—so they can leave tactile memories and emotional clues on paper and in images.
Amid the quickening variations of society, the countryside has become a small line of text quietly pushed to the margin, gradually overlaid by the city’s glare. “Compressed modernity” is not an abstract term; it unfolds concretely and coolly on swept dirt roads, in sealed door seams, and in ponds about to be filled. As many indigenous residents turn toward the city, the tools and traces of rural life have their edges worn down by time. Along this compressed timeline, I try to gather fragments still warm to the touch—elements abandoned yet saturated with the marks of living—so they can leave tactile memories and emotional clues on paper and in images.