EVA CHANG
I closed my eyes. waiting for the world to speak. to tell me something I knew. and I thought about my time in confinement. that time when the world spoke to me for I waited truly. I opened my eyes. what was in front of me was the dim cramp of my unit. I sat in units of objects. leaning against a metal sheet partition to my right. the uneven fabric is to my norm unacceptable. the room half open. an irregular makeshift place that says about my attachment and my limitation. things I cannot live with, I write alongside with. at this travelers’ station and their intermediate pauses, I attempt to station for my practice higher than life. soon I would shed debris of me here.
storage notes, 2024
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we went on all fours. the wind went stronger. at each steps there were lapses. the ripples we stepped on were erosions that saw no sign of life. we proceeded. her palms grant her caresses that touch nothing but to move sensually. it has never been about the recipient but her formation onto the world. the opening on the right of bell feast through which it paraded became stranger and stranger. as we now raced with our muscles at last fired in frantic. in repetition of rocks of distance that surrendered no further view or clue. the adjacent altars were our last stop. one faint and collapsed low, one dark and foundering tall. they stood at the edge of a powdery horizon of vast earth. we were lost that moment the sharper minerals were beneath our soft sprinkled soles. the trees, an absolute novelty, absorbed the wind at times. obscuring a time stop vacuum of shadow. we attempted to trace back finding last markers. the sun was pressing our exit. the blue it casts in the first dusk has always been beauty horror. all the mental notes on our way out seemed to stretch our way back. our leaps tore. the crack opened downwards. the sun was on the great house of the canyon. and we heard the bells again. who has terrified her into the business of attending this world.
untitled, 2024
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I can feel it harder. as hard as holding my breath beneath water. to stay behind while the organism moves. I am lost in it, being driven into time. the ongoing can’t be registered but is too a huge organism. to not debate with. to allow. to stand by and watch of. I would sit and let it wrap up to me. and the oxygen level drops. the forbidden higher ground has no oxygen until I am adapted to the altitude. to practice is: I am youthful or hopeful. I thought about death. each time I am above the clouds.
untitled, 2024
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I saw her this morning. closer to noon where the sun became an engine. I was a moving object to her, anonymous and gone. but her profile, her form, her cardigan buttoned low, and the papers clutched small with a red pen were to me unambiguously her. I was not looking in particular nor was she standing out in particular. but Leena, of all girls, would know this: that we are exposed. I stopped when she stopped. and before I moved again, her lips did not synchronize with her speech. as if she did not know her route and arrived. or her descriptions were sparse and non descriptions distilled. as if there was little to no visibility but the will and willingness inside her.
untitled, 2023
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zero word. decidedly now 4 words.
I am writing as I lose my sanity which in parallel I collect to my best into a linearity.
untitled, 2023
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Eva Chang (b. TaiChung, Taiwan) lives in NYC and has written extensively about contemporary art. Her writing practice is often characterized as poetry but in truth that is only an approximation.