Untitled (lost and maybe not always found) (2018)

Interactive Installation​
found wallets and purses, artist receipts, QR code scanning device, headphones set
“I’m sorry” exists as an unusual state of being -  at times demanded as a social obligation, other times, a normative dilution, readily disposable. Yet, it takes courage, pride and vulnerability to express a difficult apology.

​“Is there someone in mind you have always wanted to apologise to?”

As an invitation to a confessional social experiment, participants who responded to the public open call were asked to record their apology - simulating how they would have done so in reality. With a pact of trust, I then engage in an intimate conversation with each participant to reflect upon their experience.
I found myself drawn to stories of individuals, especially the ones that were movingly expressed. Narratives have a universal and metaphorical dimension - the emotional immediacy of a story can connect to different aspects of imaginary realities and at the same time isolate them - as private individuals - from their immediate social context.

From the genuine hesitations, awkward pauses, shivering voices to the dramatic outburst of tears, there is a raw authenticity present in the human voice that a machine can never translate. By the end of each experiment, I would ask the participant how they felt and if the experience has brought value to them. We realised it made a difference when we are intentional and specific about the apology. Some were inspired to have the courage to deliver the apology to the actual person. Some found it therapeutic. Some treated the experiment as an opportunity for self-reflection, while others treated it as a practice to phrase their apology. Depending on circumstances, not all apologies could be delivered. Some gave up because they have drifted in their relationships, while others were simply waiting for the right time to do so. Some simply didn’t find the need to communicate it. It was a difficult conversation to hold, but it also revealed that a simple act of kneeling in humble grief can lead us to courageously engage with our lives.
Examining the possibilities and conditions of human emotions, I constructed a fictional apology service: framing the voice recordings into appropriated till receipts - as a proof of transaction wrung dry of all emotions, pathologically honest and poignant - with individual QR codes that link to respective audio recordings. Weaving together narratives from families, siblings, ex-lovers, couples, friends, to acquaintances, they form a part of an interactive installation that transcends the personal to provide a monument to the participants involved.

Opening up ideas of promises and regrets, love and heartache, truth and discomfort, trust and intimacy, grief and anxiety, Untitled (lost and maybe not always found) seeks to honour and sustain a shared consciousness shaped by common experiences of life, of love and of unresolved emotional conflicts. The interactive installation seeks to provide an intimate experience for viewers to contemplate on all that may be lost, and found, in the most personal of items, stories and exchange.
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Note: 
​Viewers are invited to uncover the receipts inside the autobiographical wallets on the ground, in order to access the apology transcript and audio recording with the set of headphones and QR code scanner provided.

**All transcripts remain anonymous and have been granted permission for public display.

“The most personal of items are meant to create an experiential set of questions when offered to us like this, that are resonant even when we know it is art.”

“It’s a very intrusive act, but also a very human tendency to want to know of affairs of others even if one is seemingly completely detached from those involved. We are both intruding and navigating a set of moral questions. How a stranger has more access to truth, or more specifically to the authentic feelings of the apologiser; while the person the apology is addressed to may never hear or receive an apology if it never comes to light.”