About the work

The architect had a particular theory about corners, how they accumulate not just dust but the forgotten intentions of a space. He used to say that a building’s true history was written in the scuff marks on its lower walls, the places where hands and shoulders and wheeled things made contact. He wouldn’t have envisioned this, though: a child in a snowsuit, standing by a hot dog roller, the exact point of connection between the inflatable slides and the concrete wall already wearing thin. It’s too specific a wear, too sharp a contrast. How much of the child's small world relies on this precise spot not giving way?