IDENTITY BECOMES RITUAL
In the liminal hour where day gives way to night, the desert holds its breath. Time thins. Shadows stretch. And from the stillness, dreams begin to crystallise. These are not dreams of sleep—but hallucinations, flickering at the edges of consciousness. Projected from within the chambers of the studio, they ripple outward, becoming mythic figures etched in light. Each apparition is draped in contradiction—obscured and radiant, concealed and revealed—moving through the soft, burning sands of a world in flux. The obsidian surface does not just reflect—it remembers. Faces emerge as though summoned from heat and silence, each gaze heavy with the weight of imagined futures. Latex gleams like liquid night. Adornments catch the final light like falling stars. The self dissolves, reforms, expands. These aren’t costumes—they’re spells.
