Dear Wilson was once the beginning of the letter to a tennis ball manufacturer, which now has been transformed into an installation.
The words have been translated into patterns and the inquiries swallowed by intense colours.
The sounds of the factory have been blended with naive attempts to plant tennis balls in flower pots.
Would they grow?
In the relationship between an individual and mass production, is there any room for imagination?
Do we just buy anonymous objects, or can we believe in tennis ball seeds?
