Light Through the Mirror — Motion

First light

2026-03-02T12:00:00Z

Nine mornings, one tripod position per morning, and a rule: nothing in the frame that knows it is being filmed. Bakers' vans. A tram running empty to the depot to begin. The man who unlocks the newsstand with a gesture he has made forty thousand times and does not need to watch himself make.

The film is silent except for the city's own first sounds, recorded on the spot — I have come to believe that dawn has a room tone, and that it is different from night's by one or two birds and a certain quality of bus.

Four minutes. No faces, no music telling you what to feel. The excerpt above — like the poster — is a procedural stand-in generated from this film's own shade, holding the player until the footage is exported.

A room in winter

2025-12-05T12:00:00Z

One camera position, locked off, facing the west wall of the studio. One frame every thirty seconds, from the seventh of December to the first of January. The film is what the room did with that month: the parallelogram of sun that walks the wall and shortens daily until the solstice, then — imperceptibly at first — begins to climb back.

People pass through, but at this compression they become weather. A visit is a flicker; an afternoon of work is a shadow that leans; Christmas is a warm lamp burning in the corner of six consecutive seconds. What persists at this timescale is not activity but arrangement — the chair, the window, the light obeying its enormous clock.

I made it to learn what the eye can't sample and patience can. The solstice is visible. You can watch the year turn on a wall.

Player to come with the media phase; the poster is a procedural stand-in in this film's shade.

The long way home

2025-10-11T12:00:00Z

The premise is small: for one month, never take the fastest route home. The camera came along. What began as a joke about map apps became, somewhere in week two, a film about attention — about how a city you cross efficiently is a city you never actually enter.

The detours produced their own cast. A courtyard with a bathtub full of succulents. A bar that only seems to exist on Tuesdays. Two chess players in a doorway who let me film their hands but not their faces, which was the correct artistic decision and they knew it.

Eleven minutes, handheld, cut to the rhythm of walking. The soundtrack is an unedited voice memo of my own footsteps, which sounds like a gimmick and plays like a heartbeat.

The player lands with the media phase; the poster is a procedural stand-in in this film's shade until stills are ready.