“The role of the object is to restore silence”

- Samuel Becket

The Mirage, that shimmering, beguiling trick of the eye, the desert’s cruel magic. Here, it’s not just a mirage—it’s the breathing incinerator, a symbol, a metaphor wrapped in the scorched heat of the world’s most inscrutable illusion. A multi-layered distortion of lines, bending and twisting like a fever dream, it is the horizon—but only as an abstraction, as a surreal mockery of the earth’s edge. Picture this: heat rising in waves off the blistering desert floor, distorting the air, warping light, creating a space that isn’t there but feels there. The surface, the very skin of the piece, comes alive, breathing life into the inanimate, as if the earth itself were gasping for breath in its slow, inexorable march across time. A moment of stillness, twisted into motion.