This montage moves between two places and a single, recurring image. On a rooftop in the Los Angeles Garment District, Marike lies on a mirror, her body suspended between sky and reflection. The mirror collapses depth, turning ground into image and image into surface. It’s a simple gesture, but it creates a small rupture in orientation, a moment where horizon and body begin to trade places.
The cut to Big Bear shifts the register. The forest at dusk dissolves into light, the firmament softening as sky and earth seem to blur rather than separate. I’ve long been struck by the passage in Genesis where the firmament divides water from water, establishing the first horizon line. Here, that ancient act of separation feels briefly reversed. The world appears to liquify, as if boundaries are provisional rather than fixed.
Returning to the rooftop, fabric shimmers in kaleidoscopic light, no longer worn but animated by air and reflection. The montage holds these images together without explanation, letting the idea of the horizon drift between them. What emerges is not a narrative but a meditation on first divisions: reflection and ground, sky and surface, body and environment. The cut becomes a way of touching that original line, not to redraw it, but to feel its instability.
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