“Days may be equal to a clock, but not to a man.”
—Marcel Proust

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Time has always been a blurry material. It takes many faces: the rhythm of life, the beginning and the end. I start to interrogate it—what or where is time? It is something we never see directly, only its traces on bodies, trees, and sky. It always seems to move in one direction, away from me. Yet, when I sit in a waiting room, I feel it moving while everything around remains still.

From this perception it underlies Time in Time: movement without evolution.  Two kinds of time confront each other: The linear time of the stone—slow, accumulative, eroding until it returns to dust. And the circular time of the clock—precise, endless.The second hand, obstructed by a river stone, oscillates back and forth, suspended between advance and retreat. In that hesitation, time stagnates.