



Arranged like a scattered reel of film, the composition fractures experience into sequential glimpses—figures, objects, and symbols suspended in a restless orange field that feels at once sun-scorched and fever-dreamed. The perforated black borders impose a mechanical order, yet the porous, stippled textures seep across frames, suggesting memory’s refusal to stay contained and the way personal narratives bleed into collective ones. Blue linework reads like a private notation system—icons of labor, broadcast, and ritual—turning each “still” into evidence of a larger, unfinished story about observation, repetition, and the politics of what gets recorded. The overall rhythm is both archival and unsettled, as if the work is less a story told than a record of how stories are constructed, edited, and quietly distorted.







