The eye was built for rectangles. The horizon. Flatness.
Square. It interrupts the flow, folds gaze back on itself. Stillness with edges.
Within it, chaos awaiting. The square stares back. Everything depends on where you cut —a slight tilt, a breath, and composition turns to tension.
Depth pushing through flatness. Disturbed stillness.
Not a frame of safety; a space for rupture. The energy pressing against the edges, as if the frame might split open to let the movement —the moment— escape.
6×6; my mirrored reflection.
Limits only exist to reveal where they break, where symmetry loses balance, and something raw inside insists on being seen.
Maybe that’s what the square is for: to hold disorder still; or pretend to.
