Computers reshaped not only the way I create, but the way I think. They offered a quiet miracle — the grace of “Undo,” the forgiveness of “Redo.” A gesture can be reversed. A mistake can disappear. Creation becomes fluid, almost weightless.
But this lightness carries its own vulnerability. A sudden crash, a forgotten password, an obsolete format — and the work dissolves into silence. Flash fades. Discs decay. Files vanish into digital dust.
In this shifting landscape, I learned a different kind of detachment. I no longer hold my digital works the way I once held my paintings, my sculptures, my photographs — objects that breathe, that gather time, that bear the trace of touch. Physical works endure. They crack, they fade, they age — but they remain.
This exhibition moves between these two conditions of being. Between pigment and pixel. Between surface and screen. Between what can be held and what can only be accessed.
It is a conversation between permanence and disappearance, between the body and the code, between memory as matter and memory as light.
