Mimesis

He wears the suit like a second skin, linen in muted teal. There’s a precision to the way he moves—through the room, between the objects, as if the very lines of his body were too perfect, too composed, as though he weren’t quite a man at all, but rather an element of the composition itself. The art, draped across the walls and scattered across tables, pulses with more life than he seems to hold. Or perhaps it’s the reverse. Perhaps he is the art, and the room is merely the scene, incidental, a frame for his existence.

He stands there, suspended. Every detail—how his weight shifts, the way the linen gathers at his frame, how the light refracts off the abstract shapes around him—seems calculated, deliberate. As though some hidden geometry binds him to this world. And yet, the truth slips away, eludes definition. You can no longer tell where he ends and the space begins, whether the art is merely decoration or if, in fact, he is the one being watched.