Hard drives containing my entire image archive were thrown out of a sixth-floor studio window.
Years of images collapsed into unreadable code.
This work is what returned.

Memory dissolved into fragments of light and number.

Through data recovery, the images returned — altered, incomplete, trembling.
Not restored, but recomposed.

In the Avatamsaka Sutra, the universe appears as Indra’s Net:
a web of infinite reflections, each fragment containing the whole.

The broken files resembled such a net —
pixels scattered, consciousness dispersed,
waiting for alignment.

Sitting in stillness, I began to see differently.

It is not the wind that moves.
It is not the banner.
It is the heart.

A glitch is not an error.
It is perception exposed.

The image does not depict a landscape.
It reveals the act of seeing.

I am not what you think I am.
You are what you think I am.

Between zero and one,
between void and form,
something continues to look.

The universe may be nothing more than
a vast storage of unfinished reflections.

Forms collapse.
Data erases.
Yet something persists —

like light traveling across a jeweled net,
returning, again and again,
to itself.




2014
Digital print face-mounted to Perspex and mounted on aluminium