Marcelo Prais

Mirror Ball A mirror ball produces no light of its own. It receives, fragments and returns what reaches it, scattering one source into hundreds of small, unstable truths. Memory works the same way: we never hold the past, only its reflections, cast onto surfaces that were never meant to keep them. Here the party is over and the ceiling remains, bearing traces of a gaze that has left. The sphere turns the world into a constellation of others, each tile a partial self, each light a fleeting fable.