𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘱 𝘣𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴
Chiara Bugatti & Josef Jägnefält
11. – 13. April 2025

Soap bubbles—a shimmering promise on the edge of being broken.

How to blow soap bubbles that last for months or even years is a sentence pulled from a random page of The Whole Earth Catalogue, a publication first released in 1968—just after the Earth was photographed from space. In that image, the planet appeared impossibly small. When humans first glimpsed the fragility of the Earth, the urgency of gathering knowledge, tools, and techniques for surviving in a delicate environment became impossible to ignore.

In the pages of the catalogue, the lifespan of a soap bubble is extended by adding a chemical solution to its mixture. But beyond the use of chemicals, there are other ways to stretch time—quieter ways. As listening carefully, observing attentively, or recalling a specific memory. Repetition, too, produces its own form of permanence: the same gesture, performed again and again, creates a sense of closeness—a refuge within the bubble. In these small rituals lies an impossible desire—to catch hold of something fleeting, to keep it close as long as possible. In uncertain times, this longing intensifies: seeking comfort in intimacy, desperately trying to preserve a fragile connection before it slips away.

This same instinct echoes the impulse that leads you to hold onto an old piece of furniture passed down through generations—to touch its worn wood and feel the presence of those who came before. Not through memory, but through the object itself, which holds the trace of their absence. It is a presence that feels distant, much like the Earth in the photograph taken in 1968. Yet, like the astronauts gazing from space, you can observe, but you cannot intervene or help.

From such a vast distance, human presence feels absent, as though it has dissolved into the world itself. In space, the farther you move from Earth, the more time stretches. It’s almost as if everyone had left—perhaps forgetting to close a drawer or fleeing in haste, leaving things unfinished, fruit left to rot on the table.

And yet, even in absence, something lingers. A faint reflection on a bubble’s surface, a dent in the wood, a planet floating in the dark—each a reminder that something, or someone, was once here. We reach for these echoes not because they can bring back what is lost—but because they are proof it was real, and that for a moment, however brief, it was ours.

photography: OMN