Liora never trusted art that explained itself.
The works that mattered didn’t persuade. They didn’t argue. They didn’t shout. They rearranged the room and waited.
Once, she watched a single line of light installed across a public building. It didn’t accuse anyone. It didn’t commemorate anything. It simply cut the space in a way that made certain movements awkward and others inevitable.
People began to pause where they hadn’t before. They gathered where they hadn’t meant to. Conversations changed shape.
Nothing was said.
And yet the field had shifted.
Later, someone called it political.
Liora smiled. The work hadn’t taken a position.
It had altered the conditions under which positions were taken.
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