Tteo Zavaglia

A walk through the conservatory reminds me, twenty minutes across lake shore drive. Dizzyingly accompanying fragments of a seat already taken.

Start here, within the perpetual fission of doorways and rooms. I am lost in a home of my own making.

Two generations of mothers, won from fathers.

See the coiling smoke, sheet of ice pilling the brick. Figure I'll take a closer step. There are people inside, walking about. Figure I'll take a closer look. It notices the curiosity and flashes the lights. End the intermission. Figure, I'll watch from here.

A room glows faintly. Something hums between the doors. For a time, nothing stirs, then something moves—maybe the room? Maybe you did. Until it moves again, you can’t say who moved first.

Still somehow the slightest touch of a stranger can set up trembling in my bones. I know no one's going to show me everything.

Three white horses stand still at the base of a ruined steeple. Their flanks streaked with ash; flakes drift through the air. The sky is split with fire—objects falling, fast and bright, trailing smoke. The church is half-collapsed, its bell swinging dumb. Hooves strike the stone—slow, then faster.

An intoxicating smell. Leather jackets, smoke from inside. Coins from home without currency, but yes, something sweet.

So getting up gets to be a problem for a sensitive person like him. The problem is to run that gauntlet again. Remove problem, remove gauntlet, remove run. Remove is to, remove the, remove that. Leave this, make this whatever.

Fully enveloped in the figures of a body I created. Smooth, soft edges. Reclusive, mechanical redesigns. I am stuck here, with that screen hovering over my head. I dive inside.

Lay in bed, two kittens on my windowsill.

Keep yourself grounded, with an ear to the floor. There are those who wish to deafen you from the earthquakes.

I'm more than lost now, and more than now. The summit only takes you deeper.

The eastside is covered in smoke, a repellant few become familiar with. Figure I'll take a walk around the town. A blinking streetlight my only guide. Picture that, more recognizable now.

A series of 21 short video art films, presented in three rotating groups of seven. Each piece runs under two minutes, pairing digital visuals with music to explore themes of isolation, atmosphere, and dissociation. The editing process involved a deliberate erasure of original footage and timelines, leaving only the saved project files as source material. This method draws out a more instinctive, machine-driven visual language—revealing how the editing software itself responds, reinterprets, and distorts memory and intention.

The door opens to the garden, which leads to the house. The drive is long and cumbersome, I feel as if I am falling asleep at the wheel.

They spent five hours dining and spent the early morning after driving home. The hours folded in on themselves, leaving only the trace of warmth and noise. The whole had scattered, something faintly remembered, already slipping.

An exploration of how sound shapes form in real time.