"Fragments of Nowhere explores the fluid boundaries between reality and illusion. The tangible dissolves into the surreal ephemeral. Through motion, light, and composition, the works challenge our perception, suggesting that reality itself is just another shifting layer—one of infinite possible worlds. In this art project, the familiar is unhinged, inviting us to question what we see and how we see it."
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away.
Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away.
Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away.
Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away.
Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit.
Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
We move through shifting zones, documenting changes as they happen. Some distortions last seconds, others settle in like they’ve always been there. The images serve as field notes—traces of what we encountered, what resisted capture, what left an imprint before slipping away. Each entry is a record of interference, of spaces in flux. Some distortions linger, others erase themselves the second we turn away. Either way, the landscape moves on. We follow.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
Somewhere between a guest and a glitch, the Drifter isn’t exactly lost, just… undecided. It flickers in and out, like bad reception or a half-finished thought, bending light in ways it probably shouldn’t. Try to pin it down, and it’s already gone—reshuffled, reassembled, mid-exit. Drifters don’t wait around for explanations. They cut across dimensions, take wrong turns on purpose, and leave behind just enough to make you wonder if they were ever really here. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they still are.
