What remains of edges and contours when their becoming is trapped in a frozen model? The interplay of their emergence, their variation and their loss is reduced to a fixed mapping of ‘denoisable’ patterns, which only carries the seeds of average - and dangerously familiar - faces? Then the cultural life of forms - and at its most intimate core, that of the face-to-face - is hijacked and dissolved into a predatory gaze that is not even emerging from a certain kind of embodied relationship with the world (a fascistic orientation for instance), but rather a set of relationships between weights that, although not deterministic, is nevertheless blindly closed in on itself from the outset. Despite everything, it seems that we can actively add noise to noise, in a way that tries to open this enclosure, and possibly embraces the absence (or the haunting) of contours as a glorious emancipation.

Nothing is ever formless.