Swollen eyes mark a tragic betrayal of the eyelids.

The structure lies in the corner where the light passes through glass windows. The wooden platform looks like a stage, or an outline of furniture, marking its territory. Separating it from the floor is a single human step. The structure is a stage, an outline, a vessel of deep dark liquid. The territory takes shape into a reference, a raised platform prevalent in traditional Vietnamese classrooms. It lends a separation, creating space between teachers and students.

The liquid—in its depth and darkness—sustains quietly, drowning in or with the wooden structure. It stains the structure as it turns into a vessel of purple fountain ink. It is ink, but in the mind of the Northern Vietnamese children from the 90’s, it is specifically Hong Ha purple fountain ink. A requirement imposed on students of grade 1 to 6, lest they fail, to use when learning how to write—with their right hand—the Latin alphabet.

Right hands are stained with purple ink as if seeping through the skin of many generations.

Emerging from the purple ink platform are five stainless steel sculptures, delicately learning to balance on the ink's surface.

Through the glass windows, the light illuminates the pool of purple ink. The illumination then reflects onto the steel, polished to a mirrored surface. To mirror is to reflect the light the eyes are set to see. A mirroring of a mirror, a reflecting of a reflection, then became a disruption of looking. The eyes are made to see, to look. More than a tear drainage, its lids exist to protect. A swelling occurs when the eyelid fails.

Colloquially, a stye is a consequence of looking at something forbidden

These days, in my hands—still stained—remain the purple ink.

Frankfurt am Main, 26th June, 2024

Thuy Tien Nguyen