Pixels on a Screen

Within the walls of my old apartment, I made memories and mistakes—love, lies, confessions, complaints. Beneath its ceilings, I slept through storms—resented the creaking footsteps of my neighbor. I made art, as well as excuses. Through its windows, I watched the seasons change. I witnessed the exodus of a community; the demolition of their homes; the uptick in luxury condos, pilates studios, and pedigree dogs. On its floors, dust stirred and settled. Through its doors passed friends and family—laundry, clean and dirty—possessions, accumulated and discarded.

For much of the time I lived in that apartment, I viewed it, simply, as another set of obstacles between myself and any conceivable progress. Consequently, on October 25, 2014, determined to preserve every ounce of a rapidly-decaying moment of clarity, I got out of bed and began walking from room to room, snapping one picture after the next of my ceilings and walls. Today, digital echos of that moment have found their way to you in this collage of upside-down landscapes, now emulated on a synchronized array of luminous, microscopic diodes—red, green, blue. These are just my first attempts to preserve a memory that, to this day, I am still trying to hold onto.