I build mechanisms around feelings.

A life can be watched all day and never really seen. So some of my works give more to whoever stays with them, and carry on without you when you leave. A figure who lifts his head only when someone has stopped to look. An image that surfaces only for a viewer willing to be silent. Anyone can watch. What turns watching into witness?

The works keep dates. A candle appears one evening a year. An upside-down image flips for a single day, and the world rights itself. A color completes its circuit in nineteen hours and twenty-nine minutes, in honor of a birth year. These are vigils, and machines turn out to be good at them. They don’t skip a year, don’t get tired, don’t decide a grief has gone on long enough. One work listens and keeps nothing. Another knows only who owns it now. If a machine keeps the vigil, does the vigil still count?

The works keep secrets: details almost no one will find, dates I don’t announce, questions I don’t answer anywhere. What I don’t hide is how they’re made. I’ll always name the medium, and I’ve credited AI in the work since 2023. When a work keeps a secret, is it keeping it from you, or for someone?