The Amorphic Season I

In The Amorphic Season, autumn begins not with decay, but with transformation. Through a handmade filter, the world melts into itself—solid forms turn fluid, light folds into memory. The vegetation along the lake glows with saturated warmth, as though the season were reluctant to let go. The glass transforms each color into emotion; reds and greens ripple like recollections half-remembered. As Gaston Bachelard wrote, “The image is a pure creation of the soul.” Here, that soul is glass—bending, breathing, remembering.