SILENCE

Silence. Not the kind that rests. The kind that expands. The kind that fills every corner of a room that used to hold two people and now holds only echo.

Pas celui qui repose. Celui qui s’étend. Celui qui remplit chaque coin d’une pièce qui contenait autrefois deux personnes et ne contient plus qu’un écho.

RIEN

Rien. Not absence as tragedy. Absence as fact. Clean. Clinical. Final. The way a glass empties and doesn’t mourn what it held.

Pas l’absence comme tragédie. L’absence comme fait. Propre. Clinique. Définitif. Comme un verre qui se vide et ne pleure pas ce qu’il contenait.

Pas
d’oxygène.

Pas d’oxygène. A flame doesn’t decide to go out. It simply runs out of what it needs to continue. That is not abandonment. That is physics. And grief, it turns out, follows the same laws.

Une flamme ne décide pas de s’éteindre. Elle manque simplement de ce dont elle a besoin pour continuer. Ce n’est pas de l’abandon. C’est de la physique. Et le chagrin, il s’avère, suit les mêmes lois.

Éteinte.
Hésité.
Tous partis.

You didn’t leave. You hesitated — and everything else took that as permission.

Tu n’es pas parti. Tu as hésité — et tout le reste a pris ça comme une permission.

Vide.

Vide. Not hollow like a cave — which still holds shape, still echoes, still suggests form. Hollow like after. Like what the word after becomes when you stop waiting for before to return.

Pas creux comme une grotte — qui garde encore une forme, résonne encore, suggère encore. Creux comme après. Comme ce que le mot après devient quand on cesse d’attendre le retour d’avant.

Ce qui reste.

Ce qui reste. / What remains.

Not nothing. Something quieter than nothing. The negative space where a person stood. The shape of a hand that no longer reaches. The warmth a room holds for a few minutes after the fire is out.

Pas rien. Quelque chose de plus silencieux que rien. L’espace négatif là où une personne se tenait. La forme d’une main qui ne tend plus. La chaleur qu’une pièce garde quelques minutes après que le feu s’est éteint.

This is not a love poem. This is what love leaves behind when no one comes to collect it.

Ce n’est pas un poème d’amour. C’est ce que l’amour laisse derrière lui quand personne ne vient le récupérer.

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Residual Forms: Against Correction began with images that were never meant to survive.

The works in this series originate from damaged photographic negatives—scratched, partially destroyed, or rendered unusable by conventional standards. Rather than restore or digitally “fix” these materials, I chose to work with what remained. The damage was not treated as an error to be corrected, but as a condition to be extended.

Each piece is composed through a dialogue between the original photographic residue and generative processes used to visualize what I perceived within the blank or ruptured space. AI was employed not as an author, but as a tool for articulation—helping to give form to what was already present but inaccessible. The final images emerge through the composition of both elements: the irreparable negative and the speculative visualization layered into it.

what remains grows
_{Residual Forms: Against Correction, ©2025
Mixed media (damaged photographic negatives, AI-assisted visualization, digital composition)
Edition of 7}

Visually, the works hover between botanical abstraction and light-based events—forms that resemble blooms, flares, or eruptions without fully resolving into a single reference. These images are not symbolic flowers, but residual gestures: traces of something interrupted, transformed, and allowed to persist.

Negative Bloom
_{Residual Forms: Against Correction, ©2025
Mixed media (damaged photographic negatives, AI-assisted visualization, digital composition)
Edition of 7}

Conceptually, the series resists the contemporary impulse toward clarity, polish, and correction. It asks what might be gained by refusing resolution—by allowing damage, ambiguity, and interference to remain visible. In this way, the work reflects a broader interest in survival through distortion, and in the quiet agency of what refuses to settle.

After Damage
_{Residual Forms: Against Correction, ©2025
Mixed media (damaged photographic negatives, AI-assisted visualization, digital composition)
Edition of 7}

Residual Forms: Against Correction is not about repair.
It is about coexistence—with loss, with process, and with the imperfect conditions that shape how images, bodies, and histories endure.

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This fall and winter, I’ve been returning to something essential—the kind of raw, visceral art-making that doesn’t ask permission. Working across mixed media including acrylics, Posca markers, and pastels, these pieces have become an expressive outlet during a season that demanded one.

There’s something both controlled and wild about this recent body of work. Each piece demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of color relationships, particularly in how iridescent pinks, purples, and blues achieve an almost luminous quality against deep, absorbing blacks. The technique is deliberately tactile—I’m building up substantial texture through confident mark-making, where each stroke functions both independently and as part of a larger optical blend.

There’s something both controlled and wild about this recent body of work. Each piece demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of color relationships, particularly in how iridescent pinks, purples, and blues achieve an almost luminous quality against deep, absorbing blacks. The technique is deliberately tactile—I’m building up substantial texture through confident mark-making, where each stroke functions both independently and as part of a larger optical blend.

What draws me to working on dark grounds is that phosphorescent quality you can create when building up light from darkness. It requires patience and a clear vision of value structure, but the payoff is genuine atmosphere and depth. Those gestural marks radiating across the surface aren’t just decorative—they create movement, they pulse with energy, they invite you into a space that feels both botanical and celestial.

The dynamic, gestural quality of these works reflects their purpose. They’re not polite. They have this visceral, immediate quality because they needed to exist exactly as they are—spontaneous, decisive, unapologetic. Whether working with the bold opacity of Posca markers or the scratchy, electric energy of pastels, each medium demands its own kind of commitment, its own conversation between control and chaos.

This is art as outlet, as necessary language, as proof that sometimes the most radiant things emerge from the deepest shadows.

The post Finding Light in the Dark: Recent Works, Fall/Winter 2025 appeared first on IJ Mackay.

Certain chapters in fashion history extend beyond the runway—they leave a lasting imprint on how we perceive creativity and identity. For me, Tom Ford’s visionary leadership at Gucci during the late 1990s and early 2000s was one of those pivotal moments. It wasn’t just a triumph of style; it was a revelation that reshaped my understanding of design and the power of personal expression.

When Ford stepped in, Gucci was a brand searching for a clear voice. Within a remarkably short span, he revived it, not simply through exquisite craftsmanship but by injecting an attitude that was at once daring and sophisticated. His designs weren’t just clothes—they were statements, embodying desire, confidence, and influence. He transformed minimalism into a provocative language and tailored pieces into tools of allure. Dressing up no longer felt routine; it felt like stepping into your most empowered self.

For me, Ford’s Gucci wasn’t about fleeting trends—it was about identity. The bold silhouettes, the glossy materials, the fearless glamour spoke volumes. They taught me that fashion is not something you put on; it’s something you become. It shapes how you carry yourself, the space you command, and the silent yet unmistakable messages you send.

His meticulous attention to balance—the interplay between restraint and flourish—and his ability to translate cultural moments into wearable art deeply inform how I approach design in all its forms. Whether I’m designing a space, crafting an experience, or selecting a scent, I return to those same values Ford championed: elegance, precision, and confident boldness.

Tom Ford did more than influence my aesthetic—he gave it purpose. His era at Gucci wasn’t just a chapter in fashion history; it was a catalyst for awakening creative potential. And that influence continues to guide me today.

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In a world drowning in megapixels, instant previews, and AI-assisted perfection, it might sound a bit mad, or at least stubbornly romantic, that I’m still out here cranking a 35mm camera and fumbling with film canisters. And no, I don’t mean occasionally—I mean still. I happily shoot roll after roll, drag them down to the lab (okay, sometimes I soup them at home), and patiently wait to see what surprises develop out of that little light-sealed canister. I even still use manual focus. Yep, I relish the gentle click and whirr of mechanical gears far more than any digital beep or autofocus whiz. But why?

Why stick to this “archaic” art form in 2025? Let me try to explain.

The Artistry of the Unknown

Shooting film, especially 35mm, is about surrendering to the unknown. Every roll is a tiny adventure, and every frame has an element of suspense. With film, you never truly know what you captured until you see the processed negatives—sometimes days or even weeks later. Was your exposure spot-on? Did that happy accident of a light leak create a dreamy, unexpected flare? Digital photos are all about certainty; film is about the possibility—embracing the fact that mistakes aren’t just OK, they’re often the best part.

Celebrating Mistakes: Light Leaks, Scratches, and Serendipity

Film photography is a celebration of flaws. That streak of red from a stray bit of light that snuck into the camera? Gorgeous. A little blur from missed focus or shaky hands? Sometimes that’s the soul of the image. Unlike the sterile, pin-sharp perfection of digital, film rewards you for being a little messy, a little reckless, even a little careless. It’s the grain, the texture, the odd scratch or chemical streak—the parts Photoshop tries so hard to fake, I get straight from the real thing.

Control… and the Magic of No Control

Sure, with manual focus and a fully mechanical camera, I get full control over every shot. No software choosing my settings, no autofocus robbing me of intention. But just when I think I’m in charge, film reminds me I’m not. The process—unpredictable and tactile—forces me to slow down, to think and see rather than just snap. But the medium also takes over: chemicals misbehave, frames get double-exposed, results will always surprise. The dance of control and chaos is what keeps me inspired.

The Feel—Grain, Texture, and Hands-on Creation

There’s something sacred about holding a strip of negatives, seeing the tiny, translucent versions of your memories. The grain and texture of film are unique—imperfect and organic in a way digital can never be. It’s tactile, tangible, real. And yes, sometimes I scan those negatives and throw them into Photoshop—maybe healing a dust spot, maybe pushing the contrast, maybe going wild with edits. That post-production is part of the fun too: blending old and new, digital and analog, intent and imperfection.

Why I’ll Never Stop

At the end of the day, it’s about making images that feel alive, not just look polished. Shooting 35mm is equal parts art, adventure, meditation, and beautiful frustration. Will I ever go fully digital? Probably not. Will I ever give up the joy of manual focus, mystery, and emulsion under my fingernails? Absolutely never.

So if you see someone squinting through a tiny rangefinder, cheerfully missing the focus by a mile, know this: some of us are out here making mistakes on purpose. And loving every moment.

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So with so many options now, why WordPress?

For me, the answer is simple: control, cost-effectiveness, and customization. Sure, I’ve built sites on just about every popular platform—Squarespace, Wix, and a few other star players—each bringing their own stellar features, seamless e-comm tie-ins, and, lately, some impressive AI-powered writing and design tools. They make building a modern website easier than ever.

But underneath, you’re always working within their boundaries. There’s always that unmistakable “Squarespace” look, or mysterious styling quirks you just can’t tweak out. And the cost? It adds up fast, especially when you want more than the basics.

WordPress, by contrast, gives me ultimate creative freedom. Want drag-and-drop? Easy. Want to dive into the code and make it your own? You can do that, too. The platform keeps getting smarter (AI editors, anyone?), but it never sacrifices that raw, foundational control. Maybe it’s a little less flashy than the newer all-in-one builders, but if I’m going to trust my brand—and my clients’ brands—to something, I want to own it, not rent it.

Besides, do I really need an AI designer to put me out of a job? I’d rather harness WordPress’s flexibility to have my site look, feel, and function the way I want, all while keeping costs in check and the option to scale as I grow.

In the end, WordPress isn’t just a platform for me—it’s a partner in creativity, empowering me to design, evolve, and fully own my digital presence.

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“Hello World” is a phrase that echoes across coding time and space—those earliest words whispered between a creator and their code. It’s been there in every language, every framework, marking the beginning of something new. In fact, one of my first creative offices at Amazon literally had “HELLO WORLD” emblazoned in neon across the wall—a glowing reminder that every story starts with a simple greeting.

As I launch this new portfolio and take the next step in my design journey, I decided to let “Hello World” stay, just as WordPress intended. More than a default, these words are an invitation: to explore, to create, to connect.

So here I am, saying Hello World… again. Welcome to my work, and to whatever comes next.

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