A life folds into a shoebox into a storage into a warehouse. A warehouse folds into a squat into a cinema into a brewery. A brewery folds into a studio into a start-up and then a brewery again, which folds into a gallery into a hotel into a condo. A condo multiplies with velocity into a highrise at half the time we were expecting. The tram tracks have reached the neighborhood at twice the time we were expecting.
Back on the ground, a florist folds into a vape store into another start-up. And then a bar.In the bar Kenny sings about how to fold ‘em. Ironically though. A corner store folds into a cafe into a co-working space into a children’s boutique, and then unfolds back into a corner store. That’s trust. A finger rolls the final cigarette paper over. A police station opens in the lobby. And then a prison.
A laundromat folds into a tailor into a dry-cleaner into another laundromat. It’s the district for that. A matchbook folds upon a phone number, into a pocket, which folds into a lifestyle. Handkerchiefs once folded, body parts too. There’s an app for that now, so laundromats return to strictly washing clothes again. Quite cleanly. A lover folds the trousers of another lover, sadly. But back to the shoebox: two more blondes move into my building; my favorite neighbor folds.
I fold myself into a crevice between economy class and the toilets, having found a spot for the artworks to journey. I return to my seat and fold the safety buckle over. A traveling grandmother folds her hands on her lap and puts her head upon my shoulder. We share sweets. We share codes. We can’t speak. We fold into one another; we take each other into the fold.
– Elif Saydam for Nooshin Askari, Serminaz Barseghian, Adam Fearon, Rebekka Hilmer Heltoft, Siyi Li, François Pisapia and Ursula Pürrer
