In this moment

The angle of sunlight in Barcelona is slightly steeper than in Taipei, with about a 16-degree difference in latitude between the two cities from September to October. I’ve noticed the daily changes in sunlight, with the slanted rays extending further into the room each day. It seems to traverse the entire length of the long wall, nearly covering it. The large window takes up a significant portion of the wall, and each day, I open
two panes—both the wooden louvered shutters and the glass windows, which open to both sides. This has become a kind of ritual, whether it’s in the morning when I wake up or in the evening when I return home. The act of opening the windows initiates the day’s activities inside the room, while controlling the windows allows me to adjust the size of the light that filters in.

I’ve observed how the shapes change, how the light and shadows shift. Just when I think I can control these movements, the sun shifts a little more the next day, appearing slightly later. I start chasing the sunlight and the shadows, as though I can create forms out of this simple interaction. This beautiful scenery lets my thoughts flow freely inside the room, allowing me to focus on my observations of the sunlight. It’s in this focus that I can momentarily escape the noise and dust from the construction outside.

Through the reminders of distant places, I have come to notice the changes in daylight—marking time, climate, and the everyday.

In the flickering of light and shadow, I immerse myself in the poetic imagination of memory.