At the group show in Millbank Tower, I originally planned to place the projection structure under a table. But during installation, I realized the table wasn’t long enough. So I improvised with a flipped exhibition stand—and unexpectedly, it formed a coffin-like shape that perfectly matched the projector’s throw distance. This “accidental construction” felt oddly fitting, almost like the space itself was collaborating with the work’s logic.

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The audience reactions surprised me. One tutor remarked that the metal stand looked like a mechanical arm. Someone else said the whole thing felt “too eerie to watch.” These comments made me feel like the work was doing what it was supposed to: sending signals, causing misreadings, making people shift in their seats.

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Later, Who’s There? was selected for Tate Modern’s Tech, Tea & Exchange Showcase, and shown in a much more conventional way—a TV screen with headphones in a small display area. This change in presentation forced me to reconsider the boundaries of the work. If the viewing posture changes, is it still the same piece?

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At Millbank, viewers had to make a decision—to lower their bodies and crouch. That tiny bit of resistance was crucial. It created a threshold: you had to adjust yourself in order to enter the work. At Tate, that layer of friction disappeared. People stood, put on the headphones, and watched the screen like they would watch anything else.

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I noticed a clear difference in how long people stayed. At Millbank, once someone committed to crouching down, they usually watched the whole piece. At Tate, most people glanced for a few seconds and walked away. That difference made me realize: posture isn’t just about form. It affects the depth and quality of engagement. Crouching became a kind of micro-ritual. Once you chose that posture, a certain contract of attention was made.

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This shift made me see that viewing conditions aren't a side note—they’re central to the work itself. Moving from “entering through the body” to “casually browsing” wasn’t just a change in format—it deconstructed the piece. Without that small bodily threshold, Who’s There? lost half of what it was.

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This contrast between the two settings also made me rethink the nature of installation. It’s not just a container for video—it’s the constructor of the experience. The same footage becomes a completely different work in different contexts. Not because the content changes, but because the path to arrive at it changes.