Light fades away without a sound.

It is not something burned into the backs of our eyes, or sinking to the depths of memory, but simply a sense that something had been there.

The first time I laid eyes upon Luminant Point Arrays, I didn’t know what I was looking at. It was striking—vivid in color, rhythmic in flow, textured with an organic, analogue tremble.
When I found out that they were photographs capturing the moment a CRT television turns off, that fleeting strangeness became all the more unforgettable.

Now even the existence of cathode ray tubes themselves is slowly fading from reality. This series, born over a decade ago, is in some respects a record of things disappearing—quietly capturing the presence of a moment that can no longer be touched.