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The Story
Small wings press against warm glass, drawn to the thing that will undo them. Stan Brakhage built his 1963 film without a camera, sealing moth wings, petals and blades of grass between strips of tape so the projector could shine straight through them.
The same idea sits here: something living, flattened, lit from behind. Neroli comes first, bright and waxy, like white flowers under a bulb. Then the ground gives way — wet soil after rain, matsutake pulled from damp woodland, the cool mineral chill of a forest floor. Sandalwood and tree moss settle underneath, bark-dry and green with age, while soft musk warms everything back toward skin. Attraction and decay arrive together: fragile things caught mid-disappearance, still glowing.
The Notes
The Brand
