ALPHA CENTAURI

Mixed media, acrylic, epoxy resin, gold glitter, on canvas The closest system, and yet, unattainable. In Alpha Centauri, three celestial bodies coexist in a space straddling violence and beauty. The blood-red inner frame delineates an intimate, almost theatrical cosmos, as if one were observing a scene from outside of time. Below, a red and black planet spins on its axis, marbled with white and sprinkled with gold—a volcanic, living, dangerous world. It doesn’t look like a place where one survives. It looks like a place where one is born. To its right, smaller, a sphere encased in resin sparkles with gold and red—a fiery core frozen in transparency. A miniature star or the laid-bare heart of a planet. In the upper left, spilling out of the frame as if trying to escape, a third planet. It is cold, white, streaked with blue and red. It does not quite belong in this scene. It watches from the edge, half outside, like someone still hesitating to enter. Between them, pink and gray nebulae stretch out like smoke after a battle. A point of white light pierces the center. A solitary star, a fixed landmark amid the chaos. The golden background of the outer frame—the raw, almost earthly fabric—anchors this cosmic scene in the tangible. It reminds us that even the most distant stars are made of the same matter as we are. Alpha Centauri speaks of impossible proximity. Of what we see clearly but can never truly touch.