My current practice explores the boundaries between digital simulation, organic perception, and emotional residue within a technologically accelerated world. I began this project with the ambition to build a fully coded environment—using algorithmic logic and programming to simulate a living, shifting world. The initial output was a heartbeat: a pulsing digital heart whose light halo lingered briefly at the coordinates of each beat. That small, glowing trace became a metaphor for everything I was trying to grasp—fragile memory, coded emotion, and artificial life.
This experiment gradually unfolded into a series of structural and conceptual collisions. My goal of programming a collapsing Earth—both as visual object and symbolic world—proved technically difficult, and the program repeatedly failed to render into video. Instead of treating this as a failure, I chose to preserve the broken attempts as part of the work itself. I began to explore glitch aesthetics, not as decoration, but as a visual logic: a breakdown that reveals the architecture of the system itself.
Inspired by artists like Cao Fei and Pochva Groubnov, I started to consider memory, environment, and digital matter in new ways. Groubnov’s use of physical soil to express digital longing led me to reconsider my own materials. Could I simulate "natural" environments using 3D fragments? Could code and image create new spaces of remembrance, even if they don’t work "perfectly"?
In tandem, I explored Blender and Unreal Engine, learning to construct 3D scenes from trees and roads to entire cityscapes. I modeled small figures that could traverse these spaces—observers of a vanishing world. My final idea formed around a temporal passage: a camera-eye moving through three stages of environment—past (pure nature), present (technologized nature), and future (glitched, virtual memory of nature). These spaces aren’t just landscapes, but emotional registers.
This emotionality found further resonance in the work of Ryoji Ikeda, whose experimental sound compositions influenced my understanding of time and structure. His music is not about harmony but about the character of each tone, each interval—a kind of sonic glitch logic. Inspired by Ikeda, I began constructing ambient soundscapes for my visual work: fragments of wind, synthetic echoes, and low-frequency pulses mimicking the body. Sound became a second language, extending the work beyond the screen.
Ultimately, my project has become less about showing a polished end-result, and more about presenting the attempt—a system in motion, breaking, adapting, and reaching. The breakdowns, distortions, failed renders, and manual workarounds are not mistakes. They are what the future might feel like: imperfect, recursive, speculative.
I am not trying to simulate a working world. I am trying to build a space where broken systems still hold beauty, and where digital materials—like dirt, like breath—can still remember what it felt like to be alive.