Flaubert wanted to write a novel about nothing and failed.
In this piece I wanted to try to take the ego out of my art using chance and make a work seemingly without an author about nothing. Three random image paths spin and stop like a casino’s one-armed bandit on three large vertical installation screens. Do their random collisions in space reveal an intelligence all their own, a natural creativity, an emergent reality beyond my ego-driven intentions? And what would "nothing" look like?
I found ego is very difficult to eradicate in art and in life and nothing, according to Hegel, taken by itself without its opposite, can exist.
A work about nothing inevitably turns into something? A paradox.