In the Room Where We Begin to Pixelate
Two figures stand in a gallery—a child on each side of the mirror, both partially dissolving into particles. Behind them, their silhouettes loom larger, projected against a digital wall of cubes, like memories rendered in 3D. And it feels like we’ve stepped into the quiet moment just before someone asks: which version of me are you remembering right now?
There’s something tender and unsettling about this space. The lighting is clinical, but the emotion bleeds out like a slow leak—fragile bodies beginning to scatter, dissolve, glitch. As if the act of looking too long might erase them.
It’s been a week of strange echoes. News cycles running loops. People grasping at the idea of truth in a world increasingly filled with mirrors. Some things broke open. Some were quietly swept under digital rugs. Somewhere between a resignation and a riot, we pixelate—holding form just long enough to be archived.
This image feels like it knew. It feels like a commentary on identity in an age of projections and versions. A gentle child split between real and reflected, both crumbling. Not from violence, but from time. From attention. From the gentle weight of existing too visibly in too many places at once.
And maybe that’s what art is doing lately—standing still long enough to let us watch ourselves fall apart. And if we’re lucky, reassemble differently.
