Fractured
2025
Animation, Text
Through my partner, I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for classical music. I gravitate towards anything in a minor key and prefer contemplative works to large orchestral processions. Music that doesn’t announce itself but instead feels like someone thinking.
I had a complicated relationship with learning the piano when I was young, sitting somewhere between obligation and resistance. By contrast, my partner, who taught piano, had a healthier relationship with the instrument. Sometimes, I think about her younger self, practising for hours, pressing the keys as if she were asking them questions.
When I attend recitals, I like to observe the interplay between the musicians and how their idiosyncrasies manifest: their eyelines, expressions, and how they might lean into specific notes or passages. At other times, I close my eyes to better focus on the phases of the notes, their attack, decay, and release —a small architecture of sound unfolding in time.
This series comes from that same quiet curiosity—what happens when you stop trying to fix an image in place? Inspired in part by a painting that shifts depending on where you stand, I began asking still images questions—what would happen if I split them, rotated them, let them fragment like light through a prism?
Free of a tripod, I take snapshots using long exposures that catch abstract movements and light refractions—photographic found objects shaped by a kind of chance operation. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how perception works: how some things you hear better with your eyes closed, how some things become clearer when you stop trying to look.
Maybe that’s all I’m doing: tuning in, tracing outlines, and trying not to miss the quiet parts.