APOLLO 11

Mixed media, acrylic, and glitter on a circular support This is not a canvas. It is a porthole. Apollo 11 is a work that begins even before you look at it—with its support. A circular disc with a black metal rim and visible rivets—industrial and precise. It’s not an artist’s frame. It’s an astronaut’s window. And what you see through it changes everything. Below, immense, the moon looms large, its surface a blend of pink, beige, and brown, textured with craters and dusty plains. We see it up close, from low Earth orbit, from the exact spot where Armstrong and Aldrin saw it before descending. It fills the entire lower half of the porthole—too large to take in at a glance, too real to seem possible. Above, the absolute blackness of space sparkles with thousands of glimmers. The miniature Milky Way, a field of stars stretching infinitely beyond the glass. And in that darkness: Earth. Small, blue, fragile. The view from up there for the first time in human history. This distance changes everything we thought we knew about what it means to be home. A white star explodes at its center like a landmark, a distant sun, a fixed light in the dizzying vastness of space. Apollo 11 is a work about a shift in perspective. About what it feels like to see your own planet from afar—small, alone, precious. About the fact that sometimes you have to go very far away to understand what you once had.