About the work

He holds the phone like a divining rod, a delicate instrument for a coarse world. The mist, for all its formlessness, becomes a thing to be apprehended, to be quantified. It’s an act of impossible precision, trying to pin down the unpinnable, to make data from a blur. Perhaps he knows it’s futile, but still, the gesture persists. It’s the human compulsion to find order in chaos, even if that order is only a fleeting measurement on a screen. And in that, the mist, the phone, and the boy become a temporary, fragile system, trying to make sense of itself.