On a missing pavilion; or, everywhere the little red dot…

It is in front of you. Tall, broad, strong: wider than any other. The pavilion beyond all pavilions. Only you cannot see it. Not because it is not there. But because, at any one point, someone is blind to it. Today it is you. Perhaps it even chose you. But let me see it for you.

You walk in. Quite immediately, turn. Not because you choose to—it is just how the path blows you along. A certain lightness; one not usually associated with a place known for harshness, being calculating, methodical—draconian even. Ironic considering it is a place of transit, movement, flows. But, it is not a flow for the sake of drifting, not an appreciation of flowing. Instead, it is the embodiment of the very moment of art—not of aesthetics, let alone beauty, but the transfer, transmission, transaction, of the works.

The pavilion doesn’t need you to see it. It has disappeared. For, it is no longer needed: the biennale itself is Singapore.

Jeremy Fernando