The Unreliable, Unavoidable Act of Remembering
Every memory we cling to is a lie. Not a malicious one, but a gentle distortion—a mental Photoshopping of reality to make the past more digestible. This uncomfortable truth pulses beneath the surface of "Something That Should Be Felt," the bold collaborative exhibition by Finland’s Hilla Kurki and Estonia’s Taavi Rekkaro. Their work doesn’t just explore memory; it weaponizes it, forcing viewers to confront how desperately we grasp at fading moments while knowing full well they’re already gone. In a world obsessed with documenting life through sterile digital images, their tactile, immersive approach feels like a middle finger to the algorithm—and a love letter to the beautiful mess of human experience.
The Illusion of Memory
Let’s get one thing straight: nostalgia is a scam. Kurki and Rekkaro know this. Their pieces don’t preserve memories so much as expose them as fragile, ego-driven constructs. Kurki’s Clay Diaries, for instance, uses family history not to archive the past, but to interrogate its malleability. When she invites artists to her great-grandparents’ home, the resulting “living archive” isn’t about preserving stories—it’s about letting them mutate through shared presence. The friendships formed become the art itself, which raises a gnawing question: If no one documents the moment, did it ever exist? Personally, I think that’s the point. The artists are thumbing their noses at our Instagram-era obsession with proof, suggesting that the act of connection matters more than the record.
The Death of Passive Art
Rekkaro’s work slaps you out of spectator mode. By turning photographs into objects you must touch, he rejects the gallery’s traditional “look but don’t touch” tyranny. This isn’t just clever—it’s revolutionary. Think about it: For centuries, photography has been a tool of detachment, a way to freeze time and distance ourselves from its messiness. Rekkaro shatters that illusion by making the viewer’s body part of the equation. You can’t “consume” his art passively; you have to lean in, feel textures, and—dare I say—get emotionally uncomfortable. What many people don’t realize is that this physical interaction mirrors how memory actually works: messy, fragmented, and deeply personal. It’s not a museum piece; it’s a Rorschach test for the soul.
Heritage as a Living Conversation
Kurki’s family-centric work reveals something I’ve long suspected: Heritage isn’t a relic to be preserved, but a conversation to be kept alive. Her decision to photograph people alongside seasonal flora—beings that “die” and return annually—echoes the cyclical nature of cultural memory. The plants aren’t symbols; they’re collaborators. From my perspective, this flips the script on traditional storytelling. Instead of treating history as a dusty book to be referenced, Kurki makes it a party where new guests constantly reshape the narrative. Isn’t that what diaspora communities have done for centuries? Survival requires reinvention, and her art whispers: Your traditions are not graves. They’re gardens.
Why Touch Matters in a Digital Age
Let’s zoom out. In 2024, we’re drowning in images but starving for tactility. Rekkaro’s insistence on touch isn’t just aesthetic—it’s political. Every swipe on our phone numbs us a little more to physicality, yet his melting gallery wall (a literal collage of past works) demands you slow down and feel. A detail that fascinates me here is the “melting” metaphor itself: memories don’t vanish; they blur, drip, and merge into new shapes. This raises a deeper question: Is the digital era’s obsession with permanence actually making us more anxious? I’d argue yes. When you can’t delete a photo but still can’t trust your mind to hold it, art like Rekkaro’s becomes a lifeline—a reminder that impermanence is the only truth.
The Future of Memory in Art
If Kurki and Rekkaro’s show signals a trend, I’m here for it. Their work hints at a coming wave of art that rejects solitary genius in favor of collective embodiment. Imagine galleries where exhibits evolve based on visitor interaction, or where “finishing” a piece is impossible because it’s always in dialogue with the present. What this really suggests is that memory—once seen as a personal diary—is becoming a communal sculpture. And frankly, we need this shift. In a fractured world, art that demands shared presence might be the only thing left that can glue us back together.
Final Reflection: The Courage to Forget
Here’s my heretical takeaway: Maybe forgetting isn’t failure. Maybe it’s freedom. Kurki and Rekkaro don’t just make us question the past—they give us permission to let it go. By framing memory as an act of feeling rather than fact, they liberate us from the tyranny of “getting it right.” In my opinion, that’s the quiet radicalism of their work. The exhibition’s title isn’t a directive; it’s a dare. Something That Should Be Felt challenges us to stop hoarding moments like squirrels with acorns and instead let those moments reshape us, messily and constantly. After all, isn’t that what being alive is all about?
