Each thumbnail is a gate: a memory paused, an action folded, an object waiting for its next resonance. Nothing here expires. The images—whether drawn from studios, landscapes, rituals, or fleeting collaborations—form a dispersed autobiography of materials, gestures, and encounters. Some pieces belong to long-running series; others appeared only once, briefly, and disappeared again. But all of them carry the same pulse: the conviction that art survives through circulation, reinvention, and the quiet persistence of things. This archive is not linear. It behaves like a constellation—shifting, porous, rhythmic. A bag of oranges, a stretched arm in a gallery, a lake in Provence, a bent triangle from a forgotten shoe shop, clothes punctured under the Zagreb sun, metal rings found on the street, the yellow bag crossing borders, a bubble inflated in Düsseldorf, and dozens of other scenes—each becomes part of a relational geology that keeps expanding. Their contexts change, their meanings mutate, yet the works remain accessible, ready to surface again when needed. These fragments stand here without urgency: they don’t demand closure, they don’t ask to be explained. They simply rest, charged with potential. When the time comes, they will resurface—reframed, reactivated, renewed. In art, as in memory, nothing truly disappears. Everything waits.
