¹ The title Cradle (2026) refers to sudden infant death syndrome, sometimes referred to as the cradle of death: the unexplained dying of a child in its sleep, in the safest place there is.

² Generative fill is a function in image-editing software that completes or replaces missing or selected parts of a photograph based on what the algorithm expects. The machine looks at the context and confabulates: it invents what could be there, plausible and photorealistic, but never actually seen.


³ In Greek mythology, Galatea is the ivory statue that the sculptor Pygmalion made so perfect that he fell in love with it. At his plea, Aphrodite brought the statue to life. Galatea is the form that becomes living — or that always carried life within it, waiting for recognition.

What the images in this series have in common, is that their representational qualities have been comprimised through the use of digital techniques.

For The Cradle¹  (2026) I repeatedly applied the function of generative fill² to a found interior photograph.
Through this process I witnessed how the original image changed over time, the way memories in our brain shift shape each time we retrieve them. With every step, the image moved further from its photographic origin. I call the process degenerative fill: not generative but corrosive, a steady unmooring from the logic of what once was.

The algorithm confabulates just as undisturbed as the sleeping world that does not see what happens when a child dies in its sleep. The process and the subject are the same: something losing its form slowly, unnoticed, and without discernible cause.

The Miscarriage of Galatea³ (2026) presents a modernist exhibition building, the type that in the 1950s radiated progress and feasibility, in which a mass of cloths and fabrics falls downward. The movement is at once outpouring and unfolding. Within the folds, suggestions of bodies are visible: forms that are human without fully becoming so, anatomical without being nameable. 

The spectacle of the world's fair and the silent space of the operating room lie uncomfortably close together here. Both are places where something is put on display. Both require an audience that undergoes without intervening.

The Miscarriage of Galatea was generated by artificial intelligence on the basis of so-called prompts — words translated by the algorithm into images. That fact, too, is part of the work: an image as a translation of a translation, made by a machine that does not know what life is — and that has nonetheless brought forth something that gestures toward it.