Single-channel video installation, digital render and 3D print, still photographs, fabric, wind, broken ceramic

There is a cold light—captured through a neighbor’s window by a Canon point-and-shoot from 2008—printed on a falsely textured cloth in Cinema 4D, moving gently like moonlight in the dark. It becomes the only illumination.

I wonder how many things exist in a liminal state of a sort of diasporic loneliness—between memory and forgetfulness, between permanence and total loss. Letter to W began with that question, and with a rock I found online: a free 3D scan downloaded from a stranger’s archive. I duplicated it inside Cinema 4D, rendered it endlessly, then 3D printed it in resin in real life and tried to set it on fire. Unlike nature’s rocks—formed by pressure, time, accident—this one is frictionless, endlessly reproducible. A ghost pretending to have mass.

I tried to set it on fire. It didn’t work. Or did it?

A letter without a sender. A light without source. A rock that isn't heavy. When something almost feels like something else, does it preserve memory or mask a quiet, elegiac happiness?