It has been standard practice, whenever I've worked installing an exhibition at a major art institution, to take a polaroid of the artworks in order to note how they were shipped. Often, that polaroid would be left near the artwork itself, or close enough to it that you could experience the idea of both at the same time. I have always been fascinated by the difference between an object and an image of that object, and I often grant the eye of the camera unusual powers; trusting its "eyes" over my own.
This makes sense when you want to look at a still frame of an action sequence, or discover the background of the action you were seeking to capture. The functionality of the camera's image comes into question when a still, real, object is right in front of your eyes and you are given the choice of whether to look at it, the actual experience, or an image of the actual experience, as is the case of the work of Linda Yun, currently on display at Vox Populi.
The flattening of an image that occurs when you take a picture gives you the feeling that reality has already been interpreted for you. The details, even though some of them become lost, become easier for your mind to process. Each polaroid also lends a measure of important to the works, someone has already granted them "picture worthy", and not just digital picture worthy, but polaroid picture worthy (we all are no doubt aware of the expense of film for polaroid cameras). Though it occurred to me to think about, I won't bother to dissect what Ms, Yun's work would be if the polaroids weren't present, they are such an intricate and vital part of this exhibition that I think it would be impossible (as well as irrelevant).
In Passing is as quiet as a funeral home and often as creepy as a ghost story.