Where technology becomes telescope and microscope both
My research practice inhabits a territory I call Artistic Alchemy—the transformation of technological seeing into embodied knowing.
I am drawn to the strange intimacy of medical imaging: MRI scans that render our innermost architecture visible, satellite feeds that make landscapes into data, algorithms that translate the invisible into light. These are not merely tools but portals—ways of seeing that collapse the distance between observer and observed, between the cosmic and the cellular.
For twenty-five years, this work has asked: How do we make technology tender? How do we transform the clinical into the contemplative, the abstract into the felt? What happens when we approach an MRI scan not as diagnosis but as landscape, when we listen to data as though it were music, when we let the geometry of the invisible teach us how to see?
Research, for me, is an act of patient attention. It is learning to recognize patterns that echo across scales—the branching of neurons mirroring the branching of trees, the pulse of a heart resonating with the pulse of stars.
In 2020, I led an online workshop with Vasulka Kitchen Brno that served as a laboratory for this investigation. We worked with medical imagery, particularly MRI scans, not as fixed data but as living terrain. The question was never "What does this show?" but rather "What does this ask of us?"
Together, we explored:
We studied adjacent technologies—from analog scan processing to electron microscopy—not as distractions but as different dialects of the same language, each offering its own way of making the invisible speak.
This process of engaging intuitively yet rigorously with technological seeing—whether through MRI, satellite imagery, or generative algorithms—forms the foundation of my proposed research. It is about locating the human within the signal, about creating space for wonder within precision, about remembering that every measurement is also a mystery.
The work asks us to dwell in the paradox: that our most intimate anatomy becomes visible only through the most distant technologies, that to see ourselves clearly we must first become strangers to ourselves, that knowledge and wonder are not opposites but companions.
My ongoing research circles several persistent questions:
How does scale transformation alter perception? When we magnify the microscopic or compress the cosmic, what shifts in our relationship to both?
What is the relationship between measurement and meaning? Between data and embodiment? Between the map and the territory it claims to represent?
How can we use technology not to distance ourselves from nature but to remember our place within it—to recognize that the spiral of a galaxy and the spiral of DNA are speaking the same geometric truth?
This is research as practice, as patience, as a way of remaining curious about the patterns that connect the farthest reaches of space to the deepest recesses of self.