Imagined occupants must move in line with the space they occupy, and it’s hard to imagine anyone other than a cut out character, shuffled around by game-playing children, inhabiting such a place. This, perhaps, is Toebbe’s point – that an ideal of personhood is no more inhabitable than a flattened-out interior.
This lends her works their ghostliness; life reduced to a pattern is still haunted by the viewer’s projected inhabitants, like children’s toys given strange life through the power of the imagination.

Text by Ben Street