Virtual transformation

In the National Archaeological Museum of Naples, the Farnese Collection includes the marble sculpture The Farnese Atlas. For this 3D animation, a digital scan of that statue was used.

According to Greek mythology, the titan Atlas is condemned to carry the vault of heaven for all eternity. On his shoulders rests an infinite weight and a cosmic responsibility.

In this virtual reinterpretation, the entire figure has changed: both Atlas and the globe appear entirely wrapped in bubble plastic. The unyielding weight of marble gives way to a material that is light, fragile, and airy. Atlas still carries the world, yet its weight constantly shifts — at times pressing him down, at times slipping away, too light to hold.icht om te houden.

The background intensifies this interplay. A page from a school atlas, covered with bubble plastic, responds to movement. Hands press against it, and air pockets burst where the tension is greatest.

Children pop bubble plastic in play; adult hands burst matter itself as if it were a child’s game. Bubble plastic serves to protect something — but without its soft, inflated air, it is nothing more than a thin layer of emptiness.

This animation continues the project Form of a Passage (2018). Whereas the visualized particles then appeared as an open, ambiguous element, the flow here takes on a tangible direction: water moves through an invisible, digitally defined volume.

The premise remains the same: currents — whether of water, air, information, or thought — are shaped by external forces. A stone alters the path of a river; a satellite shifts the orbit of a comet. In the virtual space, something similar occurs: unseen objects direct the movement, tracing patterns that are both controlled and unpredictable.

The colours and rhythms are inspired by the woodblock prints of Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai (1760–1849). His waves are reimagined here as digital motion — a contemporary echo of natural flow.

For a long time, I searched for a way to visualize precisely that fundamental movement of an umbrella. Eventually, I found the solution in an unexpected combination: the umbrella and the jellyfish. The way a jellyfish propels itself through water closely resembles the opening and closing of an umbrella.

In this video, a jellyfish-like umbrella (or an umbrella-like jellyfish) drifts through the deep, dark water. The movement is slow and calming, yet it also raises questions: could this be a glimpse of a future fusion between nature and synthetics?

A young woman stands before a mirror. She hesitates for a moment, as if uncertain whether to take the leap. Then she steps forward and disappears, together with her reflection, into nothingness.

The scene plays with the threshold between presence and absence. A mirror usually confirms our existence: whoever looks into it sees themselves reflected. Here, however, the mirror offers no confirmation — it becomes a passage toward disappearance. A single step is enough to erase one’s own reflection.

The brief hesitation makes the act all the more striking. It suggests the vulnerability of the choice: to remain or to vanish, to continue or to give up. At times, both possibilities seem to carry the same weight.

When the signal is given, they appear en masse, forming a pale greenish cube that moves across the darkening sky. Yet the cube does not remain still: it constantly transforms, shifting shape and at times almost dissolving, only to reassemble once more. What first seemed like a scattered flicker suddenly reveals itself as an organized choreography – a fleeting spectacle that radiates both order and enchantment.

The cube of fireflies is no lasting monument, but a brief gathering. Once the performance ends, the lights dissolve into the night and chaos returns. What remains is the memory of a moment in which nature briefly allowed itself to be shaped into geometry.

The figure embodies human existence as a sequence of encounters. Everything we experience — sensations, smells, traumas, accidental touches — leaves its trace. Along his path, abstract shapes meet him, bend his form, and then let him go again.

The image shows how we are continuously shaped by what approaches us. Every contact leaves an imprint, temporary or lasting. Yet the figure keeps moving forward — transforming but never still, a human in the making, formed by everything that appears and disappears.

Here, a polished wooden figure appears, its drawers sliding open and closed. From these drawers emerge dodecahedrons that rise toward Venus’s head, where they merge into a chaotic, moving cluster.

Dalí’s original idea remains intact. Inspired by Freud, he used drawers as a metaphor for the subconscious — that which remains hidden yet ever present. In the animation, the drawers open and close, each time revealing a fragment of the subconscious in the form of a dodecahedron.

The choice of the dodecahedron is not merely aesthetic. Since antiquity, this geometric form has been associated with the universe and the unknowable. Here, it symbolizes thoughts and emotions emerging from the subconscious: clear and orderly when they first appear, but chaotic and incoherent once they merge in Venus’s head.

The scene unfolds in a dark forest — a second metaphor for the subconscious. Between the trees, an opening glimmers in the distance: a glimpse of awareness of our deepest inner stirrings. The work evokes both fascination and danger: what happens if too much, too quickly, rises to the surface from that unfathomable interior?

A column is more than an architectural element: it is a bearer, a foundation that promises safety and stability. At the same time, it stands as a symbol of power and authority. When that column takes a “twist,” questions arise. Are the pillars we rely on truly as solid as we believe? Can a single column bear everything?

The rotating motion suggests that power is never purely static or self-evident. It must constantly adapt and twist in order to preserve itself. What appears stable is likewise subject to deformation — a foundation that both supports and trembles.

The space in which the animation unfolds is based on photographs of Gormley’s sculptures in situ.

The title adds a playful undertone — as if Antony himself had been lying asleep and is now calmly waking and getting up: a subtle wink within a work that simultaneously pays tribute to his exploration of the human form in space.

The tuner, buttons, and antenna move in rhythm, while tiny particles stream from the speakers — as if hatred itself were taking on a material form.

The three consecutive sequences show how this hatred can be directed at almost anything: a chair, a banana, a room. The dots fly toward the object, cover it, and turn it dark brown. Whatever is touched loses its neutrality and becomes a carrier of aversion.

In the final scene, the direction changes. The particles no longer fly toward an object but toward the viewer. They attach themselves to the field of vision until everything is overtaken by a single colour. Hatred seizes the gaze and turns the world into a monotonous projection of itself.

Exhausted, he turns around: now the leaves carry him along until he stumbles and falls.

The animation depicts humanity’s struggle with nature — first from the conviction that willpower and perseverance can overcome resistance, later in the illusion that going along with the flow might bring advantage. In both cases, nature proves stronger: a force that can neither be conquered nor simply followed.

The image suggests a confrontation between pride and vulnerability. The man keeps walking, against or with the current, yet each time he loses his balance. What remains is the paradoxical realization that nature and humanity are not truly in competition — but that every attempt to dominate or to exploit nature inevitably exacts its toll.