Philosophy

Our desire to create, to make, to invent, is not something we can—or should—suppress. It is fundamental. But we can begin to question what needs to be preserved, and what can be released. We can shift our focus from what survives, to what resonates. Loss, in this context, isn’t failure. It’s a recalibration. It reveals what matters. It invites reflection. It slows us down. It asks us to listen. What if loss was not an absence, but an alert system? A way of navigating? A reminder that our time with things—objects, people, places—is limited, and therefore more precious?

Museums, our temples of preservation, are facing a paradox. Built to protect, to safeguard cultural memory, they are now physically running out of space. As the number of artists and artworks continues to grow, so does the challenge of what to store, what to display, and what to let go. Value—whether emotional, historical, or speculative—doesn’t always align with capacity. This shift might soon force us to think less about the object and more about its representation or impression. The trace it leaves. Much like in botany, where a discovered species might be documented, sketched, classified, rather than uprooted and relocated. We may want to preserve interactions, not just things.

Think of an old forest, untouched by caretakers or rangers, thriving in its own cycle for centuries. Trees fall and decompose, creating space for others to reach the sun, yet they do not vanish. Their wood resists decay; held aloft by neighbouring trunks, they remain as bridges between life and death. Over time, they soften into nurse logs, hosting moss, fungi, and seedlings that draw strength from their fading body. In this quiet transformation, a fallen tree continues to give, becoming cradle and soil, nurturing new life from its own passing. If we shift our perception of value from the material to the experiential and knowledge-based, we may begin to see other forms of preservation—connections, ideas, and stories worth carrying on.