What if the most profound truths about our existence aren’t written in books or etched in stone, but instead linger in the textures of a clay sculpture, the warmth of a shared memory, or the ghostly imprint of a photograph? That’s the question haunting the latest exhibition at Tallinn’s Foku Gallery, where Finnish-Estonian artists Hilla Kurki and Taavi Rekkaro are dismantling the boundaries between art, memory, and physicality. Their collaboration, Something That Should Be Felt, isn’t just an art show—it’s a philosophical provocation. It asks us to confront the fragile, often unreliable nature of how we remember, and how the act of touching something—literally or metaphorically—might anchor us in a world that increasingly feels ephemeral.
Let’s start with Kurki’s Clay Diaries. At first glance, it’s a series of photographs pairing people with plants and animals, creatures that regenerate each season. But what’s fascinating is how Kurki weaponizes this cyclical rebirth against the linear march of human memory. She invites artists to her great-grandparents’ house, transforming it into a living archive where friendship becomes the artwork itself. This isn’t nostalgia—it’s a radical reclamation. By creating spaces where people gather, share, and document, she’s challenging the idea that memory must be solitary. What if the act of remembering is inherently social? I find this particularly compelling because it speaks to a generation raised on digital fragmentation, where connection feels transactional. Her work suggests that memory isn’t preserved in pixels or paper but in the residue of human interaction. The question isn’t just what we remember, but with whom we remember it.
Then there’s Rekkaro, whose work feels like a tactile rebellion against the sterile, two-dimensional world of screens. His photographs aren’t just to be seen—they’re meant to be felt. He melts together works from 2023 into a single, amorphous wall, forcing viewers to slow down, to build their own narratives instead of consuming a pre-packaged story. This is genius. In an era where we scroll through endless content, his approach is a deliberate act of resistance. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it mirrors the way our brains process memory: not as a linear sequence, but as a mosaic of sensations, emotions, and fragmented moments. His question—How can we be sure these moments really happened?—isn’t just existential; it’s a critique of our obsession with documentation. When everything is recorded, does anything feel real anymore? Or do we risk becoming prisoners of our own archives?
The deeper implication here is that both artists are confronting the same existential void: the fear that memory is slipping away, that we’re losing touch with who we are. Kurki’s use of clay—a material that’s both ancient and malleable—symbolizes this tension. It’s a medium that can hold the weight of history but is also easily reshaped. Similarly, Rekkaro’s melting wall is a metaphor for how memories themselves degrade over time, becoming unrecognizable. This isn’t just art; it’s a meditation on impermanence. And yet, there’s a strange comfort in that. If memory is unreliable, maybe that’s the point. Perhaps the act of trying to preserve it is what gives it meaning. I can’t help but think of how we, as a society, are obsessed with capturing every moment, yet often feel more disconnected than ever. What if the solution isn’t to record more, but to feel more? To let the physicality of experience—the roughness of clay, the warmth of a shared laugh—anchor us in a world that feels increasingly intangible?
This exhibition is a reminder that art isn’t just about aesthetics; it’s about survival. In a time when our collective memory is being weaponized, sanitized, or erased, Kurki and Rekkaro are offering something radical: a way to remember that isn’t dictated by institutions or algorithms. Their work is a call to arms for a more embodied, communal approach to memory—one that prioritizes touch, presence, and the messy, beautiful act of being human. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about art. It’s about how we choose to live, how we choose to connect, and how we choose to hold onto the fragments of ourselves that matter most.
