context: The text bounces through a four-sided world, measuring life in rectangles—tiny grids where thoughts, gestures, and scribbled notes perform in quick, lively movements.

The photographs mirror this four-sided perception—quadrilaterals of all sizes, playing with edges, light, depth, and layers, as if each frame were a stage.

Quadrilateral.

Four sides, the verge of a city or a rampart crowning thought; a depth, or perhaps none; a gleam caught on the surface of a gaze; layers and layers of reflections, true thinking machine that speeds up until it reaches the plain idea of “quadrilateral”. The right angle, almost fundamentally created by humans, leads us to consider whether we wish to stay or turn back. It is a small path. Four lines joined together, two equidistant sides. It is up to us alone to reflect on how we want to feel rectangular forms. These are classic and shameless feelings. That of the closed door: with or without a handle? To push it gently or roughly, to feel the weight of the large, familiar panel, to turn back toward it to put it back in place. This is the privilege of the poor; sovereigns never touch doors. The obstacle that growls at us to become another poem in the next space. To discover behind it a new eye, a new hand. Sometimes to stumble on the sill. Or the window! Offered, open, and free of its frame. A fixed screen, perhaps timid, confessed upon a building we wish to know. It then takes the shape of curiosity. Squarely beautiful—or even hideous, like a frozen ghost. Then there is the shop window, which, at the turn of a street, plunges a new space into erasure. Before casting a glance into the display, the wandering eye—ignorant of the new landscape about to bloom—collides with the glass. Light there transcends shadows to ventilate. The sober, certain joy of disembowelling the rectangular nature of a pre-cooked meal package. The courtesy of its curly contents bows onto another plate of four-sided form. Simply another drawing. Another image meant for disappearance. The meal is eaten.

The feeling, the shape, the storeys — all of it dissolves when we look too closely. Colours fade into dullness. Just as an entire film shot within a single frame glows white under the wide-open eye of the shutter. Wait. Wait until the frame disappears, until what we make of it is no longer shaped — distorted, deformed.

I am writing a text that lights up within a warm rectangle; the keyboard comes alive as characters fall, clicking into place. Work does not wait—time becomes money, and money turns time into something measurable. Squarely so.
I am writing a text on the worn quadrilateral of a sheet of paper, its edges torn, already destined for the bin. These are only quick ideas, spilled onto a flattened tree, nothing solemn. I am writing a text at the heart of a Post-it, quickly and roughly in ballpoint pen, a strip of glue on the back of this new image. It helps me remember what must be done. I am writing a text to fill out a form, each letter placed in its small glass-shaped cell, open, as though the poured drink might slip away. As if the letters of my name could transform once I am gone. A dream-shape. A bed for thoughts never to fall asleep. I am writing a text to my friend. My thumbs move quickly and precisely, just enough to tell her that I’m leaving the house, as I’ve just stepped out of the shower. I wait for my phone to light up again—another channel opening. The light, at last! It reassures me. Today, each piece of writing could perhaps correct some of the uncertainties I carry, or have built. But what matters most is that my friend knows I am already on my way.