You know the feeling when something is off, but you can’t quite put your finger on it?

Along the museum’s façade, two autonomous robots hover over the granite grit, like pieces on Mies van der Rohe’s checkerboard, leaving behind sharp, fleeting traces of water. On closer observation, the patterns become methodical, drawing potential shadows from the museum’s window grid, as if cast by an invisible light source. It is a subtle twist on reality, as though a cosmic shift had placed the sun on the other side of the Earth.

Once the façade is fully traced and the lines have evaporated, the robots begin again, like Sisyphus, condemned by the gods to endless repetition.

The performance becomes an exercise in patience, where meaning gathers not in permanence but in disappearance, and in the unresolved question of who, or what, is inscribing it.