/ SURFACE DRIFT 1 /
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I tried to catch the Sun, only to watch it collapse into a black hole.
What opens as an act of reaching, that oldest gesture, oriented toward light, toward source, ends in the failure of the source itself. Not an eclipse. Not a dimming. A collapse: the thing that was supposed to orient everything folds inward and takes orientation with it.
What follows seems to come from that aftermath. Images that were already circulating, pulled from the anonymous sediment of the internet, from the vast undifferentiated stock of wallpapers and content nobody owns anymore, enter a space where their original purposes have been quietly dissolved. A landscape with no horizon that functions. A surface that might be water, or sky, or neither. Textures that recall the granularity of old photographs without being photographs. The diffuse-generated imagery doesn't announce itself as separate; it infiltrates, smoothing the joins until the distinction between found and fabricated becomes a question with no clean answer.
The motion is slow enough that you aren't sure, at first, whether it is moving at all, whether what you're watching is animation or the optical drift of sustained attention. Black and white not as an aesthetic choice but as a stripping of the spectrum, as if colour belonged to a before that is no longer accessible. The atmosphere is hermetic in the precise sense: sealed, pressurised, internally consistent. Nothing bleeds out. Nothing invites you to locate yourself outside it.
This is the terra incognita not as blank space waiting to be mapped but as a condition that has unmapped the familiar. The Sun was the guarantee. Without it, collapsed, internalized, gone dense with its own gravity, what persists are surfaces: drifting, untethered, still reflecting a light that no longer has a source.
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