The project ties into, and grows out of, the existent light-system for the corridors: a strip of light at the edge of the ceiling, at the junction between the ceiling and the back wall, across from the window.

It’s as if the strip of light is punctured, as if holes are punched out of the strip of light. Coming down from the strip, out through the holes, are beams of light. The light- beams are ‘embodied’: the beams are formed, transformed, into three-dimensional beams, material beams, boxes of light – the boxes splay out, like rays of light, as they spread out from their source.

These embodied light-beams sweep down onto the wall, into the wall. As two light beams come down, against the wall, toward each other, they push the wall in. The pushed-in wall makes a niche, off to the side of the corridor; the niche is made up of the wall itself: the base-plate and tile, at the bottom of the wall, fold in to make the floor. Within the niche, the light-beams are shaped into furniture: face-to-face seats, a seat in front of a table. The niche is a place where you might stop, now that you have an extra minute, on your way to catch a connecting flight: you might have a last-minute conference here, on your way to different planes – you might have time here, now that you’ve found a place, for a last-minute check (you can re-organize, you can re-arrange your hand-baggage and pull out something you need to have in your hands, on your person).

As you walk down the corridor, light-beams shoot across the width of the corridor, over your head. Bursting out of the existent light-strip, embodied beams of light sweep down across the corridor – they bounce off the glass of the window-wall and turn back out above the counter that runs alongside the glass wall. At the end of each light-beam, embedded into the flat vertical end, is a telephone. As you walk through the corridor, on your way to a plane, you can stop, off to the side, to make a last-minute phone-call – it’s as if you’ve heard the call, as if you’ve been pulled into a beam of light.

Once you’ve disembarked from an international flight, as you head for a domestic flight, you come to the end of the airport-building, the window-wall at the edge of the building. Above your head, from the strip of light at the edge of the lowered ceiling, light-beams swoop down toward the window, into the window. It’s as if the light has gotten there before you, as if the light pulls you out to the edge. You walk in one direction or the other, along the edge; there’s a transfer corridor on either side. As you walk in either direction, it’s as if the corridor stretches out before you in perspective: there’s more and more light at the end of the tunnel – the light is denser, the light-beams are closer and closer together, more and more entangled, as they head toward the end of the corridor.

Outside, as you drive to the airport, for a domestic flight, you drive under the building, under the corridor: you see, above you, the embodied light-beams pushing out toward you, pushing out against the glass wall as if trying to meet the sunlight, as if trying to replace the sunlight from inside.