The moment a place becomes infused with meaning, it ceases to be merely a physical location and transforms into a symbol—of desire, expectation, and often, deep disappointment. Once a place becomes "the one," it is burdened with layers of interpretation, becoming amorphous—multi-faced or faceless. When more than one person lays claim to the same place as their own, it becomes a site of denial and conflict, as much as it might also become a point of connection.

The exhibition "One Place" explores what causes us to anoint a place as the one, what we expect from such a place, and what contradictions and tensions arise when it is forced to bear such significance.

• Gil Bar presents a wistful, romantic landscape. His photograph echoes 19th-century Holy Land photography, biblical illustrations, and scenic wallpapers. Quiet, pastoral, and unmistakably Israeli, the image evokes the Promised Land—yet it is a land marked by strife and war. The body of water depicted is, in fact, the Dead Sea.
• Michal Geva paints a floating villa suspended in nowhere. There is no ground to stand on. The tension between place and placelessness is palpable. While perspective gives the structure volume, it remains a surface—a shell, a symbol of status and lifestyle.
• Eli Diner creates a vision of dislocation. A tree, symbol of rootedness and connection, is severed from the earth and hovers, detached. It has no surroundings, existing as a being in itself. This rupture grants the tree autonomy and aesthetic beauty, but hums with a sense of impossibility.
• Nadav Weissman builds an empty, collective apartment block. Its standard architectural style renders it generic—it could be anywhere. In his work, the house becomes a mere frame. The contents are irrelevant. The dream of a home is hollow.
• Daniel Yitzhaki recreates her grandmother's living room inside a black box. In the darkness, details emerge—a bookcase, a window, a door, framed photos, and a round rug decorated with deer and flowers. These elements hint at places beyond the box. But the box makes them inaccessible.
• Shlomit Livor builds a temporal sequence in the home. Through repetitive, routine actions, her duplicated figures serve one another. This one place—populated only by her—is a private temple of endless tasks performed in solitude, yet filled with grace.
• Brigitte Millard addresses the place the home creates for her. Light pours in blindingly from the window, and on the bed lies a black-clad, limbless female figure—evoking a cocoon. Millard asks whether the private space enables us to be immobilized and heavy, or whether it is the very source of that paralysis.
• Shahar Marcus, in "No Prophet in His Own City," returns to Petach Tikva, the town where he was born and raised. After receiving a prestigious national art award, he seeks recognition from his hometown. But the place he returns to does not acknowledge his accomplishments. The work’s title, taken from the Gospel of Matthew (13:57), suggests he knew this would happen:
  "...A prophet is not without honor except in his own town and in his own home. And he did not perform many miracles there because of their lack of faith."
  The place of origin remembers only the failures, leaving no room for transformation.
• Iris Hassid Segal photographs a picnic scene: three men and a child sit beneath eucalyptus trees typical of the Israeli landscape. The setting feels deeply local. The men resemble stereotypes of kibbutzniks and army veterans. Yet despite their physical closeness, there is a disconnection—between them and between them and the place.
• Alice Klingman photographs foreign workers and inebriated individuals living in a wooded area in southern Tel Aviv. In the absence of a home, any place can become the place. Her photo, with its Renoir-like light, shows tree branches forming a womb-like shape, within which a man sleeps. In the Tel Aviv bubble of cafes and commerce, Klingman points us to another place—one hidden in plain sight.