TRANSMISSION

Transmission was the first work I created on metal, and in many ways, the first threshold into the world that followed.

It began with a question: must two bodies occupy the same space for something to pass between them?

Perhaps an encounter is not defined by physical contact. A thought, a gaze, a memory, a presence — even something we cannot locate or explain — can enter us and leave us slightly different from who we were before.

In Transmission, the figure seems to appear, disappear, and exist again elsewhere. I began to think of the self in the same way: not as something fixed, but as something continually moving through experience. Every encounter leaves a trace. Every experience becomes part of what the soul carries forward, slowly shaping the person we are becoming.

But what if that person is not singular?

In One, No One and One Hundred Thousand, Luigi Pirandello explores the unsettling idea that the person we believe ourselves to be is only one version of us. Every person who encounters us creates another. We are one to ourselves, yet countless in the minds of others.

If that idea is extended beyond perception — into every path not taken, every possible life, every imaginable reality — the self begins to multiply almost infinitely.

Perhaps somewhere, another version of us has made a different choice, lived a different experience, and is becoming a different final self.

Perhaps there is no single final self at all.

Only millions of possible versions, each carrying its own experiences, each arriving somewhere different, and yet somehow all originating from the same us.

We may only experience one of them, in this particular body, at this particular moment in time.

But Transmission asks whether what we call “me” might be far larger than the single version we are able to perceive.

As Pirandello writes,

“a minute ago … you were a different person.”

Perhaps we are always being transmitted from one version of ourselves into the next.