饭店算起来已经十六年了，也从姨妈的“天盈酒楼”变成了舅舅的“凯悦食府”。这些年里发生过很多事情，仿佛把生老病死的哀乐都经历了一遍。岁月在我们家留下的痕迹，悄悄映在饭店斑驳的桌椅、墙面与油渍里；当我再次触摸这些物件，那些被压在日常之下的记忆就一点点浮出来。家庭聚会的照片几乎总从相同角度、相同背景拍摄，这种重复对我来说更像一种无声的仪式。我将这些相似的照片拼贴与叠化，让曾经的欢笑与泪水在同一张画面里凝结，最终沉成同样的颜色。《饭店》记录的不只是一个空间，更是空间里持续发生的关系：它如何把我们聚拢，又如何在不知不觉中改变我们。

The restaurant has existed for sixteen years, changing from my aunt’s “Tianying Restaurant” to my uncle’s “Kaiyue Dining.” Over the years, so much has happened—enough to feel as if we’ve lived through everything: joy and sorrow, sickness and loss. Time has left its marks in quiet ways, mirrored in worn tables and chairs, stained walls, and greasy surfaces. When I touch these things again, sealed memories begin to surface, piece by piece. Family gathering photographs are almost always taken from the same angle, against the same background; to me, this repetition is not merely a habit, but a silent ritual. I collage and overlay these near-identical images until laughter and tears congeal within a single frame, settling into the same color. Restaurant records not only a specific space, but the relationships that continue to unfold within it—how the place gathers us, and how it changes us quietly, without our noticing.