Our lives are composed not of grand gestures, but of repetitions—movements so ingrained we no longer see them: a door pushed open, a device consulted, a handle grasped with familiar ease. Tracking Habits delves into this quiet choreography of daily life, shedding light on the unconscious rituals and inherited rhythms that govern how we move through the world.

In this exhibition, Arnaud Eubelen brings these gestures into focus through a series of objects that confront the viewer with subtle interruptions—distortions of function, form, or familiarity that prompt a heightened awareness of interaction. Whether through ergonomics that gently challenge comfort, surfaces that resist expectation, or constructions that reveal rather than conceal their making, Eubelen’s work encourages an active, almost meditative engagement with the physical world.

Central to his practice is a meticulous selection of reclaimed materials. His palette—scrap metals, fractured glass, salvaged wood, broken concrete, and exposed electronics—is culled from the overlooked debris of the urban landscape. These materials, bearing visible marks of time and use, resist polish and perfection. Instead, they carry memory. They insist on context. They demand that we see where they come from—and what they’ve become.

Each piece in Tracking Habits is the result of both intuition and intention. The visible bolts, seams, and joins in Eubelen’s constructions are not flaws, but features—underscoring a philosophy of transparency in process and honesty in form. Nothing is hidden. Everything is part of the object’s language.
In transforming remnants of the city into functional sculptures, Eubelen invites us to slow down and reencounter our everyday surroundings. His works are not merely about reuse or sustainability, but about perception—about cultivating sensitivity to the spaces we inhabit and the objects we use without thought.
Ultimately, Tracking Habits is a meditation on presence. It asks us to notice. To question the familiar. And to find, within the ordinary, a quiet kind of poetry.