Form, in this context, acts less like a visual structure and more like a boundary — one that marks an absence, or maybe invites it.
What’s not there gives shape to what might emerge. Negative space isn’t a gap, but a kind of tension — where things gather before they’re seen.

The classical, the decorative, the familiar — they appear, but not to be admired or resolved. They sit beside what doesn’t match. The juxtaposition isn’t meant to explain. Sometimes it just disrupts. Sometimes that’s enough.

This isn’t about constructing narratives. It’s about letting things sit next to each other, a little uneasily. The fragmented way we experience the world — that’s part of the logic too. Attention slips and associations clash. That’s fine.

Coherence doesn’t come from repeating themes. It comes, if at all, from staying inside a certain kind of uncertainty — where form and content shift roles, borrow from each other or just stay undecided.
Nothing here explains itself. That’s intentional.