𝗖𝗮𝘁 𝗞𝗼𝗮𝗻 猫猫禅

Cats are the least interested in the outside world of any species on earth — adorable, and entirely indifferent to your feelings about that. Which is why you cannot simply keep a cat as a pet. You must worship it as a minor deity.

In Zen Buddhism, a 𝘬𝘰𝘢𝘯 (公案) is a question that cannot be answered by logic — only lived with, sat with, until something shifts. Cat Koan takes this as its premise: Tango’s comics are the riddles cats would write if they could, their own impossible questions about how the world works. A slipper becomes a schoolbag. A chat bubble takes the shape of a cat’s ear. Beneath the moonlight, an ATM machine leaves only the letters C-A-T as a cat tugs at a curtain. These scenes, landing like metaphors, are koans of cats.

It is not hard to imagine the unease with which Derrida once wrote: “I am seen, and naked before this small cat that looks at me.” Maybe the first human awakening happens in the mirror. The second, in the luminous eyes of a cat at 3 a.m. The way cats move through a home feels poised somewhere between a child and a ghost. Can you bear being looked at that seriously?