What is most interesting to me in a material is that which is no longer there. The absences, the lacunae, empty spaces, silences and holes are what draw me in most, as the main object of the senses. (It so happens that in Hebrew the word shekhikha —"oblivion" is made up of the same root consonants as the word khashikha—"darkness").
It follows that the less material there is in the material, i.e. the less there is of rhe actual material, the more interesting is the object. This is the reason why I gravitate mostly toward shards, slivers and fragments. I am interested in traces, imprints, smudges, flecks, and incidental clues with which I can reconstruct (remember? invent?) the original narrative. Not an image, but a place for an image.
I roam through these slivers with a myopic eye. Nearsightedness smoothes the details, blurs the lines, forces me (sometimes painfully) to look closer, straining the muscles in my eyes. In other words, myopia is always a sense of loss. That which is impossible to see clearly, is compensated by feeling or memory. An object seen through a myopic eye is always peculiar, imperfect or awkward.
Myopic art requires time. It is the art of deceleration, "a stop in the desert". In other words, the audience does not run, stumbling and panting with a pain in the side, chasing the artist who sprinted into the avant-garde. Just the opposite, it is if the viewer is being evacuated. It is impossible to see the object from a distance. And it isn't a matter of size. It is imperative that you are standing very close, getting lost in the object or in its chronotope.