This is a pavilion without a name. It is a nameless pavilion; less than a structure, an infrastructure. It is an idiosyncratic place that refuses to be called in a single manner, with a single word. A place that even declines to be called a pavilion (since it would remind those colorful insects who jump from one flower to another, resting in balance for a fleeting moment).

This is an object without a name. Probably not even an object but a thing. Its form is rather basic; a square plan with a 2:3 ratio in elevation. Within this format, there seems to be a single element repeated without hierarchies. This relentless arrangement can be understood as the very rhetoric of structural behavior (since it not only resists its own weight while transferring to the ground the unpopular effort of supporting the sky). It might also be read as evidence of a kind of fear of not being able to do so.

In its monotonous gesture, in its tedious regularity as much as in its lack of direction, bold columns and slender pillars erode any other function than that of framing every other function. Many events are allowed in unlabelled places. Of course, nobody could live in such an intricate domain. The mutest wall always gives us a hint.

Naturally, one enters works of art of curiosity, then returns to them because of nostalgia, morbid boredom, or artless worship. We were told that untitled works remain open. Yet, anonymous ones do not lack an author, only a family name. Ironically enough, blank pages could be anything. Both timeless objects and nameless things are so much more.