a review of aemmonia & mariyasha's three-part exhibition with solo show online, exploring aesthetic exhaustion, digital afterlives, and the machines that devour god. by fragment.doll
Post-Angelic Hauntology emerges from what might be called "post-offsite" exhibition practice — a constellation of methods and approaches that have been developing across solo show online for the past several years. Unlike traditional offsite exhibitions, which position themselves in relation to the gallery (taking the institutional site as implicit reference point even when working outside it), post-offsite practice begins with the online-site and as primary location. The webpage becomes the exhibition venue; physical installations happen ritualistically in forests, bedrooms, abandoned lots, but they exist primarily for documentation, for transformation into images that will circulate through digital networks. The exhibition isn't what happens in physical space — it's what accumulates in the archive, what gets revisited and replayed like visual novel save states.
First proposed as a digital castle that finally became a physical series of installations, post-angelic hauntology was conceived in 2022 and developed quietly over three years within Solo Show's backrooms and anons' silent hearts. Half prophecy and half-prayer, the curators who laid its foundations experienced what the show would come to express: life shifts and platform pauses, friends logging off indefinitely, avatars and idols shattering. The particular exhaustion of maintaining presence across fragmenting networks, the silence of withdrawal, the impossibility of staying -- the first chapter of the exhibition became container for processing this experience, not as abstraction but as pattern repeating across countless iterations.
Structured as a chapter-based "storyline offsite," post-angelic hauntology unfolds across two sister locations that should feel familiar to anyone who's navigated Solo Show's projects: the bedroom (site of hikikomori practice, denpa doll piloting, heart-lockets as intensive curation) and the forest (Gothic Pastoral territory, ruins and pylons, marginal spaces where digital infrastructure meets organic decay). Each location functions as save state in gaming terms — discrete routes containing specific karmic conditions, aesthetic frequencies, temporal coordinates. The show's narrative centers on a vanished girl who flees bedroom convent for forest cabin, attempting to block what the exhibition calls angelic frequencies — attention extraction, algorithmic optimization, false idols, the machinery that burns meaning and community as fuel while producing only perpetual wanting. But escape proves impossible. She still dreams the bedroom, still receives the signals. Her costume (post-e-girl-fallen-clone-schizo-waifu-doll) becomes both protection and prison. The logged-off users haunt as silent avatars. Resurrection is needed.
The bedroom at the show's center is simultaneously aemmonia's specific room (her dolls, her light, her accumulations) and something like platonic form: the bedroom where aesthetic-girls have piloted their interior cosmos since the internet's early years, where moodboards materialized into three dimensions, where the hikikomori room became both sanctuary and studio, where selfhood performed for platforms and false gods until the weight became unbearable. Every girl who fled her own version of this room will recognize it. Every girl still inside it will see what she's building or what's building around her. The bedroom exists as template, as shared condition, as the site everyone's trying to resurrect under different terms — not the specific space but the possibility it represented before extraction machinery revealed itself.
The exhibition implements its serialized installation structure across autumn/winter/spring cycles, with works appearing and disappearing in physical spaces while accumulating in the digital archive. This treats engagement as a practice requiring sustained return — "healing from angelic frequencies takes time". The show refuses complete liberation narratives, offering instead something more honest: temporary spaces where different frequencies might circulate, interference patterns in platform logic, practices of mourning what was sacrificed while attempting to resurrect it under different conditions. Through 20+ artists contributing fragments that intermingle in the protagonist's dreams, post-angelic hauntology enacts what it theorizes: symphilosophic symbolic reurrection, collective ritual, frequency blocking machines assembled from Pinterest hauntology and Romantic fragment aesthetics, the attempt to honor digital remnants while building toward whatever comes after the angelic prison.
The exhibition's structure reads like a visual novel route selection. You can enter through aemmonia's bedroom chapter or the end-of-summer forest chapter; you might find clues left here and there. Each location functions as what Mariyasha's Cabin would call a ".ROM file" — a save state containing a map of the entire world at a given moment. The bedroom and forest aren't just exhibition venues but nodes in a playable narrative about what happens after the internet eats itself and spits our images back out. The curatorial framework positions these as "frequency blocking machines" designed to "dismantle and block angelic frequencies" - this language deserves unpacking because it works under the guise of VN-style mysticism.
The show's central antagonist is what it calls "angelic frequencies" — the acceleration of false presence, "idols", "doubles" and false spirit, cultural tokens proliferating everywhere and all at once, surrogating the thing in itself until total replacement becomes inevitable. The curatorial notes describe this as "machines devouring god":
"as all art compromises itself to the aesthetic-machine, using the algorithm as its petroleum, a sort of cultural petropolitical extinction of the god's anthropocene... God is not in the machine, the machine burns god as its fuel."
This is McKenzie Wark's vectoralist critique translated into denpa aesthetics. The "angelic frequencies" are algorithmic optimization, the extraction of meaning and community, the Instagram mirror room where everything reflects everything until distinction becomes impossible. When the curatorial text asks "if all is equally relevant to the algorithm, if all ideas are equally as memetically important as one another, where is the Irrelevant?" it's diagnosing what Baudrillard called the precession of simulacra — the map replacing the territory, representation consuming what it represents.
But where Baudrillard remained at level of diagnosis, Post-Angelic Hauntology chants intervention and works from this state of error. The "frequency blocking machines" aren't metaphorical — they're actual physical installations created from artists' blueprints, "symbolic objects" that "dismantle and block angelic frequencies." The show operates according to Subahibi-style logic: if reality is constructed through perception and symbolic systems, then rearranging symbols can alter reality's structure.
The exhibition's second chapter centers on a figure instantly recognizable to any denpa: the vanished girl. Maybe she disappeared, maybe she fled to the forest. Maybe she ran from something — screens, networks, falsehood, the crushing weight of being perceived. Now she lives in the cabin, blocking frequencies, but she can't stop dreaming of the bedroom space that seeded her flight.
It'sHigurashi's Rena hearing footsteps in the woods; it's every VN protagonist who encounters the strange girl at the shrine, the abandoned school, the forest clearing — the one who seems to know more than she says, who warns you cryptically before disappearing. But here: we're her, we're positioned inside her consciousness rather than approaching from outside. We experience her weariness, her paranoia, her attempt to create silence in a world of constant signal.
The curatorial framework is specific: she fled the phone, fled the room (site of hikikomori practice, intensive platform engagement) to the forest (ruins and pylons, the hermitage) seeking escape from images : the mori-kei impulse. But escape proves impossible — her dreams betray her, manifesting the bedroom's contents in her forest refuge.
This connects to a foundational Romantic structure: the figure who flees civilization only to discover that what they're running from lives inside them. Goethe's Werther retreats to rural simplicity but brings his melancholic consciousness. Novalis's Heinrich seeks the blue flower in external world but learns "inward goes the mysterious path." The Sturm und Drang movement's quintessential figure — the sensitive soul destroyed by inability to reconcile inner intensity with social demands — finds contemporary form in the girl who fled to block frequencies but still receives them in sleep.
The show's theoretical framework draws heavily on Simone Weil's concept of metaxu — the intermediary, the space between human and divine that both separates and connects. For Weil, certain things function as metaxu: they're not God but point toward God, creating productive distance that enables genuine relation rather than false immediacy. A beautiful landscape, meaningful work, human love — these mediate between finite and infinite without claiming to be the infinite itself.
Post-Angelic Hauntology applies this to platform conditions. The show distinguishes between "blocking" (returning to metaxu, maintaining the gap as productive space) and "anti" (apostasy, rejecting the signal entirely, cutting the connection and so remaining bound to it). The frequency blocking machines don't destroy angelic frequencies but interrupt their false immediacy — the way online rhetoric can promise authenticity, community, spirit, unmediated presence while actually extracting these very things. Blocking restores distance, the necessary gap where genuine relation becomes possible.
Weil's broader philosophy pervades throughout: her writings on affliction, attention, gravity and grace, the need for roots, decreation — all resonate through the curatorial frame. The poem's line "take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will" references Ignatian prayer, but it's filtered through Weilian surrender: the recognition that what we thought was autonomous self is already conditioned by forces beyond our control (platforms, algorithms, collective exhaustion), and that genuine freedom might require acknowledging this rather than performing false autonomy.
Most crucially, Weil's insistence that attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity shapes how the show asks to be encountered. The slow, fragmented construction, the serialized installation structure, the seasonal returns — all create conditions requiring sustained attention rather than consumptive scrolling. This is attention as prayer, as Weil understood it: "Absolute attention is prayer." The frequency blocking isn't just about false gods but about the quality of attention they demand and destroy.
The vanished girl's situation in the third chapter resonates particularly with Ophelia — the archetype of dollette madness, the girl who drowns, who distributes flowers while speaking in fragments, whose breakdown becomes aestheticized. But Post-Angelic Hauntology's Ophelia doesn't drown in water but in denpa radio waves, the constant demand for presence and performance, the predatory extraction of vibe.
The third chapter's curatorial notes reference "ophelia's mansion" as one of the Cineris Somnia locations, making this connection explicit. but the mansion isn't refuge — it's site of haunting, attempting what Ophelia couldn't: survival through flickering ecstacy rather than dissolution into the stream.
Except it doesn't work. The frequencies follow. Her dreams betray her resistance by manifesting her ghosts - the silent avatars, the dolls, the aesthetic objects she accumulated during her platform life. She becomes what the show calls "vessel for de-compositing angelic frequencies," processing signals she can no longer refuse but attempting to transform them through circulation into something breathable.
The show captures something crucial about network culture exhaustion that manifests as spiritual bereavement. The vanished girl didn't flee because she hated beauty or theory or community or mysticism — she fled because the machinery extracting these things as content became unbearable. Every aesthetic choice fitted to a false god, every vulnerability worked into its economy, every friendship mediated through platforms designed for timeline theater.
This is the weariness the curatorial notes gesture toward - 'healing from angelic frequencies takes time' - not from the shock of a single event but from the accumulated damage of years performing selfhood for the benefit of extractive forces. The girl fled when the weight became impossible — when she could no longer tell which aesthetic choices were hers and which were optimized, when every feeling immediately translated to content bearing the imprint of a false god, when her room and her heart became a data mine for ghouls.
The bedroom she dreams of is haunted by "silent avatars" — past versions of herself, friends who've logged off, the ghosts of what wired life promised before extraction machinery revealed its untruth. These avatars don't speak (what would they say? their voices were already captured, processed, archived). They just rest there, bearing flickering witness. Others still are newer shades, drawn toward the candle in search of a form to assume. This haunting carries particular resonance if we think about how extractive forces target aesthetic curation, otaku passions, emotional availability, community maintenance - the vanished girl's flight represents a refusal of this extraction — but a refusal that carries guilt and impossibility: she's still dreaming the signal, still receiving frequencies.
The Sturm und Drang (Storm and Stress) movement of 1760s-1780s Germany provides crucial framework for understanding the vanished girl's flight. These works—Goethe's Sorrows of Young Werther, Schiller's The Robbers, plays by Lenz and Klinger—centered sensitive individuals destroyed by collision with rationalized society. They asserted rights of feeling against Enlightenment rationality, individual passion against social convention, natural authenticity against civilized artifice.
The movement's paradigmatic plot: sensitive soul recognizes the deadness of convention, attempts retreat to nature or rebellion, discovers escape impossible, succumbs to madness or suicide while society continues unchanged. Werther's letters document his increasing alienation until he shoots himself. Karl Moor becomes outlaw robber but finds no satisfaction in rebellion. These aren't cautionary tales about excessive feeling — they're critiques of worlds that can't accommodate intense inner life.
Post-Angelic Hauntology's vanished girl follows this pattern but with crucial difference: she doesn't succumb but persists in the difficult space between. She fled to the forest (Romantic nature as refuge) but still receives frequencies (escape is impossible). Half surrender, half blazing solitude - she's attempting what the Sturm und Drang protagonists couldn't — survival in the gap between feeling's intensity and world's crushing extraction.
The "frequency blocking machines" she builds represent new strategy: not full escape (Romantic fantasy) or total capitulation (extractive logic) but interference, redirection, transformation. She can't stop receiving signals, but she can build machines that alter their resonance. She can't stop dreaming the bedroom, but she can use those dreams as material for different practice.
The show's treatment of "logged-off users" as spirits requiring resurrection connects to Romantic fascination with metempsychosis — transmigration of souls, reincarnation, the possibility of return after death. Novalis wrote extensively about death as transformation rather than ending, developing ideas about how consciousness might persist in different forms. His fiancée Sophie's death didn't end their relationship but transformed it into spiritual communion that he documented in fragments.
The vanished girl's dreams of the bedroom operate as form of metempsychosis. The avatars inhabiting her dreams are reincarnations of logged-off selves—not identical to their original forms but carrying something forward. They're states that can be loaded, allowing navigation across temporal layers and past selves.
This reframes platform participation not as permanent transformation but as one incarnation among many. You weren't only the version of yourself that existed on Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter, an image board. That was one save file, one ROM. The vanished girl's dreams access these states while maintaining critical distance — she's no longer living in the bedroom but can revisit it, extracting what remains valuable while refusing reabsorption.
The "yearning for rebirth" the show discusses isn't nostalgia for platform life but desire for something that was promised but not delivered: community without extraction, aesthetic practice without optimization, presence without surveillance. The vanished girl fled because platform life betrayed these possibilities. But her dreams suggest she hasn't given up on them — she's seeking different conditions under which they might manifest.
The vanished girl's paranoia in the second chapter — constantly alert for angelic frequencies, building machines to block them, unable to relax even in forest isolation — represents what happens when you've recognized the machinery and can't unsee it. She's developed pattern recognition that makes casual platform use impossible and creates intensive poetry from the high drama of network flows. This hypervigilance is simultaneously lucidity and illness. She's correct about how extraction operates — but being correct doesn't make the paranoia less debilitating. Her denpa visions are beautiful - but even those are coveted as forms. She fled to create distance, but distance requires constant maintenance. The frequencies don't stop broadcasting just because you've withdrawn consent - their spokesmen develop sophisticated rhetoric to override it. The algorithms continue modeling you even in absence. Leaked chats and Pinterest re-shares are indelible. The archive persists.
The show doesn't resolve this paranoia but inhabits it. The 2-D avatar and its kigurumi form represent one response: covering yourself completely, becoming character rather than person, inserting layers of artifice between vulnerable self and extractive gaze. The avatar says: you can look but you're not seeing me — you're seeing the role I'm performing. It's both protection and prison.
Her dreams represent the cost. You can't maintain vigilance during sleep. The bedroom manifests because some part of her still yearns for what it represented — creative practice, connection, aesthetic joy — even as she knows the conditions that surrounded it. The dreams aren't regression but negotiation: can these practices exist under different conditions? Can we resurrect what was valuable while refusing its double?
The girl in her bedroom-convent becomes the heretic in the forest. She appears at narrative's margins, offering cryptic warnings. She knows things the protagonist doesn't. She's connected to the town's dark secret, the curse, the reason things feel wrong. She exists between worlds — neither fully present nor fully absent, neither innocent victim nor consenting accomplice.
Post-Angelic Hauntology positions us not as protagonists encountering the vanished girl but as the vanished girl herself. We experience her position: fled civilization but haunted by it, seeking purity but receiving only interference, wanting silence but dreaming noise. The show asks: what does the vanished girl want? Not what does she represent for the protagonist's journey, but what is her own experience?
The answer: she wants genuine transformation, not performance of it. She wants the bedroom's interior practice without its extractive machinery. She wants to be seen without her heart being captured as an auteur curio and explained back to her. These desires are structurally impossible under current platform conditions — which is why she fled to build frequency blocking machines, attempting to create conditions where they might become possible.
The kigurumi represents this impossibility embodied. It's simultaneously: Armor (protection against extractive gaze), Costume (performing character rather than self), Ritual garment (enabling transformation through embodiment), Technological interface (the mask as screen, mediating between human and symbolic), Tomb (encasing the self that fled, preserving it in different form).
Even her dreams occur from within this artifice. The bedroom manifests not to her naked consciousness but to her costumed state — filtered through layers of mediation that both protect and constrain. When she photographs the dream-manifested artworks before they disappear, she's documenting from inside the costume, seeing through the mask's eyes.
This creates a recursive structure: the vanished girl who fled the bedroom dreams the bedroom while wearing the ritual costume that marks her as character rather than person - then documents these dreams for eventual platform circulation. She's simultaneously refusing extraction and enacting it upon herself. The frequency blocking doesn't eliminate signal but transforms its quality — interference rather than pure reception.
The exhibition's most affective dimension is its treatment of "logged-off users" — deleted accounts, abandoned profiles, archived conversations that persist as spectral presence in internet's infrastructure and the user's subconsious. The curatorial text frames the forest as their sanctuary.
This is Mark Fisher's hauntology applied to digital context. Fisher argued that contemporary culture is haunted by lost futures—possibilities that once seemed inevitable but never materialized. Post-Angelic Hauntology extends this: we're haunted not just by lost futures but by lost digital selves, the versions of us that existed on deleted platforms, in archived chats, on hard drives that no longer spin.
The show asks: "what have you sacrificed to the {angelic frequency} that you wish to call back to yourself?" This frames platform participation as literally sacrificial — you offer pieces of self (attention, creative labor, emotional investment, community formation) to algorithmic machines, vainglorious persona and dark forces that consume them as fuel. The logged-off users aren't people who chose to leave but remnants of selves fed to the machine.
The poem included in the curatorial materials develops this:
"through the murmurings of old digital blog posts, text chats, uploaded media, and the catacomb of logged off users, present and immortalized within the hidden corners of the internet, the longing for a resurrection occurs"
This "longing for resurrection" operates at multiple levels:
The exhibition functions as resurrection ritual. By gathering works from 20+ artists and installing them through the vanished girl'a dreams, the show enacts collective mourning and reclamation.
This is symphilosophy as resurrection. The Romantic concept of individual Geist sharpening through encounter with other Geists gets applied to digital afterlives - not the formless Zeitgeist that threatens to carry us en masse. Each artwork functions as fragment of a logged-off self, and their accumulation creates space where these selves can reconstitute, if only temporarily.
The show's third chapter develops what it calls "the dead internet matter as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch" — an oceanic hypersea of data accumulation, digital waste, the material substrate of seemingly immaterial networks.
This literalizes what 'dead internet theory' usually treats as conspiracy (the idea that most online content is bot-generated, humans are minority users). Post-Angelic Hauntology reframes it: yes the internet is dead, but not because bots replaced humans — because human presence has been so thoroughly processed, archived, and abstracted that it exists primarily as residue, waste product of platform extraction.
The Great Pacific Garbage Patch works on multiple levels:
The curatorial notes specify: "all that is done will return to the layers of landfill." This is both literal (e-waste) and figurative (digital detritus). The Internet Archive becomes "modern day word of mouth" — oral tradition transformed into searchable database, but still carrying the same function: preserving cultural memory outside official channels.
The show positions this archive not as neutral repository but as active haunting. The dead internet matters because it refuses to stay dead. Deleted accounts leave traces. Archived conversations can be exhumed. The "ghosts of deleted and archived accounts will haunt us" isn't threat but promise — these spectral presences resist complete erasure.
The exhibition's theoretical framework reaches peak intensity in its treatment of what it calls "Schrödinger's internet: i exist everywhere, and then nowhere, at the same moment."
This updates quantum superposition for platform conditions. You simultaneously exist (your data persists across multiple servers, platforms, archives) and don't exist (you've logged off, deleted accounts, abandoned profiles). The observation that collapses the wave function isn't measurement but engagement—you exist when platforms can extract value from your presence, disappear when you withdraw that possibility. If extraction requires your participation to extract value, then withdrawal becomes resistance — but withdrawal that leaves traces, that haunts the system rather than cleanly exiting it. This is what the curatorial notes call "post-vibe-disintegrating into pure simulacra-posting, fading into whichever sephirot the internet incarnates."
The kabbalistic reference (sephirot = emanations of divine presence in Jewish mysticism) isn't decorative. The show treats internet platforms as damaged vessels attempting to contain and channel divine energy (creativity, community, meaning) but leaking it as they extract. The frequency blocking machines work by interrupting this extraction—not by preventing divine energy from manifesting but by redirecting it away from platforms designed to capture and monetize it.
It's Hakim Bey's temporary autonomous zone concept updated for extractive aesthetics. You can't permanently escape the machines, but you can create temporary spaces operating according to alternative logics. The bedroom and forest function as such zones — physical locations where platform logic doesn't penetrate, where alternative frequencies can circulate.
The show's visual vocabulary deserves attention for how it operationalizes theoretical concerns through specific aesthetic choices. The curatorial notes list: "dollcore, post-angelic traumacore, scripture, wall-of-text, lace, phylactery, silver heart, dried flower, soft sigil, illuminated manuscript / szhizopost / manga, anime girl obvi, bloom effect, sweet items in sad lighting."
This reads like Pinterest board from 2022, which is precisely the point. The notes acknowledge: "i feel like it's probably whatever we had in our pinterests in 2022 / i am haunted by pinterest algorithim ^-^"
This self-awareness is crucial. The show doesn't pretend to exist outside algorithmic influence — it acknowledges that even "frequency blocking" operates through aesthetics that were themselves shaped by recommendation algorithms. Pinterest taught us to combine dollcore with traumacore, to juxtapose religious imagery with anime aesthetics, to see medieval manuscripts and schizoposts as aesthetically compatible. But acknowledging this influence doesn't negate the resistance - the show argues that even aesthetics generated through algorithmic and extractive mediation can be repurposed for blocking frequencies. It's less about achieving pure autonomy (impossible) than about creating interruption, alternate ending, temporary sanctuary.
These burdened microaesthetic elements accumulate in the installations not as random collage but as assembled objects that create interference patterns, disrupting smooth circulation of platform-optimized content.
The exhibition includes works from 20+ artists, each contributing fragments that accumulate into distributed narrative. The works intermingle in the bedroom, establish enchantment, and persist through the vanished girl's dreams, installed one at a time in the cabin, preserving its silence.
This installation method is important, the method always at either extreme - the works are jumbled together in the bedroom, almost to de-individuation, and then strictly separated in the forest. The temporal structure is more like VN scene progression than traditional gallery hang. Each frame has a moment of singular attention before disappearing into the plot. The "silence of the space" between installations functions like pause between scenes — a moment for integration, processing, before next fragment arrives. Works from disparate authors holding separate histories are honored in their silence, too, rather than being smelted into an indistinguishable whole.
This is symphilosophy operationalized through curatorial structure. Individual artists maintain distinct practices while contributing to collective exploration of post-angelic conditions. The show doesn't resolve their various approaches into synthesis — it presents them as constellation where each point sharpens the others through proximity and contrast.
The show's development plan — serialized chapters across autumn/winter/spring, returning to the same sites as seasons change — implements VN episodic structure. Each visit becomes a new playthrough with different conditions. The forest in autumn (when the show launches) will carry different aesthetic gravity than the forest in winter or spring. The light changes. The dreams shift.
This treats exhibition not as fixed object but as unfolding process, a playable system that evolves through repeated engagement. Like returning to Higurashi after playing subsequent chapters, the show's meaning transforms based on when/how you encounter it. You can't complete the show in single visit — it requires sustained engagement across temporal cycles, repeated returns that gradually create distance from platform-optimized consciousness.
This connects to all the threads we've traced: Romantic fragment aesthetics (the incomplete as essential structure), denpa culture (compression and intensity requiring decompression), hikikomori practice (withdrawal enabling different perception), symphilosophy (individual cultivation through collective exchange), VN/ARG structures (replay as method for understanding), platform resistance (creating temporal rhythms incompatible with feed logic).
Post-Angelic Hauntology succeeds because it doesn't just reference these theoretical frameworks — it implements them as curatorial method and exhibition structure. The show is:
A fragment network where each artwork functions as self-sufficient node while connecting to broader constellation. The installation strategy preserves fragment logic while creating memetic relationships between works and microaesthetic influences.
A frequency blocking machine that literally interrupts circulation by requiring careful engagement across seasonal cycles, attention to ephemeral installations that resist pure capture, and ARG-like traces dipersed across online space.
A resurrection ritual treating digital remnants and logged-off selves as worthy of mourning and reclamation. The show creates space where these ghostly presences can manifest, if only temporarily.
A playable narrative with routes (bedroom vs forest), save states (each installation as ROM file), and protagonist who functions as a player, loading different game states.
A temporary autonomous zone where alternative logics operate — not permanently outside of platform logic but creating interference patterns, moments of different organization.
A symphilosophic practice where artists contribute distinctive perspectives that accumulate into collective intelligence without reducing to collective or consensus.
The show's power comes from refusing false choices between complicity and purity. It doesn't pretend to exist outside of a dark and doubled terrain, but still insists that truth remains possible within those constraints. The frequency blocking machines don't achieve complete autonomy but create friction, interruption, space for different intensities.
The show's closing text reads:
"we have broken free from the angelic prison / carrying thru the labyrinth of unknown vibe / navigating thru prayer to post angelic asylum"
This is simultaneously triumphant and uncertain. "Broken free" suggests achievement, but we're still in a labyrinth, still navigating, still requiring prayer. The "post angelic asylum" isn't escape from confinement but different form of sanctuary — asylum as refuge rather than prison, but still enclosed space.
This honesty about partial rather than complete liberation is the show's ethical strength. It doesn't promise false transcendence or complete platform exit. It offers something more earnest and more achievable: temporary spaces where different frequencies circulate, moments of respite from angelic extraction, practices of care for logged-off selves.
The show suggests: we can't resurrect what the angelic consumed, but we can honor the remnants. We can create rituals acknowledging loss while generating new possibilities. We can block frequencies long enough to remember what our heartbeat feels like.
The vanished girl sleeps and dreams new works into existence. We visit and witness them before they disappear. We document and share fragments. We return in the next season to see what manifests under different conditions. We maintain the practice.
The solar storm still approaches. The archive continues growing. The frequencies keep broadcasting. We keep blocking, channeling, redirecting. The game continues. We're still playing.
-----------------------------Post-Angelic Hauntology chapter 1 can be seen at soloshow.online. The exhibition unfolds across autumn/winter/spring 2024-2026, with serialized installations in bedroom and forest locations.