Farthest Breath
In these works, distance is not a barrier but a medium — a field where presence and absence shape each other. What unfolds here is not resolution but resonance: memory refracted through atmosphere, light stitched with noise, and survival charted across coordinates that may never be reached.
My materials carry fragments of signal: archival images, studio-born sediment, hand-drawn notations, broken tools, and ideological debris. Some are collected across landscapes — Icelandic lava fields, Texan skies, post-Soviet pins — others assembled in the studio through acts of framing, layering, and holding. Together they become architectures of longing, where frames are not only enclosures but directional devices — like windows of a spacecraft, or the calibrated lens of a drifting probe.
I often think of the Voyager: moving endlessly outward, tethered by the thinnest echo of signal, becoming more ghost than machine. My work asks what it means to remain in contact — to hold a gaze, even when the receiver is gone. These images are maps not of destinations, but of attempts. They measure what can be held, even as they point toward what escapes.
Here, gaugeable infinity becomes a practice: seeing not the infinite, but the farthest breath we can still describe. Each piece marks a signal received, a failed arrival, or a flicker mistaken for return. What remains is a quiet space — a trace field — for what has passed beyond knowing, yet still calls out to be seen.