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impression
to leave an impression is our most primal rebellion. long before we had lenses, we had the urge to press a pigment-stained palm against a cave wall—a physical proof of existence. this remains the singular glitch in our biological clockwork: we are the only creatures who feel the need to say, "this is how the world landed on me."
for me, the act of seeing is a daily, inherent inquiry—a subtle yet confirmatory hunt for resonance. this impression is never imposed; it is a natural manifestation of how the world lands upon him. each frame becomes a deliberate, political situtation, a hand-wrought dent in the silence that whispers: i was here, and i felt this.
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