One of my earliest color illusions, created back in the 1990s, when I was immersed in exploring the physiology of color perception.
Do the pleated sections of the fan really have two different shades of brown?
They don’t. Every pleated “accordion” section is exactly the same brown. Only the thin light and dark bands bordering each fold differ. Those subtle edge contrasts trick your visual system into seeing alternating tones where none exist.
The color is perfectly uniform, but your brain interprets it differently depending on the surrounding contrast—a classic example of simultaneous brightness contrast.
Art is sharing—an offering from the artist to the audience. Every audience calls for its own officiant.
In technological terms, a work of art is an output searching for an input. Without that exchange, it remains only a possibility. It comes into existence through its encounter with another mind, where it can generate emotion, doubt, rejection, or wonder. A work is born once in the artist’s mind, and then again in the mind of the person who experiences it.
The artist is a translator between an inner vision and the outside world. They offer a fragment of themselves, without ever being able to control how that offering will be interpreted. Every audience recognizes the artists who resonate with its own sensibility, its questions, and its time. Every audience calls for its own officiant.
But does an art exist that cannot be shared?
If we define art not as the final object—the painting, the book, the symphony—but as the state of consciousness and the act of creation itself, then that art is fundamentally impossible to communicate. The finished work is only a trace, the imprint of an inner experience that no one else can truly access. What the audience receives is never the act of creation itself, but its remainder: its echo, its shadow, and sometimes even its misunderstanding.
(To illustrate this point, I’ve added an ironic image circulating on the net. I hope you appreciate the irony—and my sense of humor.)
Τριαλάβαστρον (Trialábastron), a triple Klein bottle, is an artistic exploration of Klein bottle geometry. In topology, the Klein bottle is a non-orientable surface that cannot be embedded in three-dimensional Euclidean space without self-intersection, though it can be smoothly realized in four dimensions.
A close relative is the Möbius strip, another non-orientable surface in three-dimensional space. On such surfaces, a continuous path can return to its origin with reversed orientation, revealing how geometry can twist the notion of inside and outside.
Here is another representation of a triple Klein bottle—UK sculptor Alan Bennett’s striking construction of three Klein bottles nested within one another. Of course, “inside” only applies in the sense of their embedding in physical space; from a topological standpoint, they remain entirely separate, non-interacting surfaces.
I like building iconic portraits from the smallest possible palette—here, just five colors of Tic Tac mints plus white. A stripped-down system that still manages to flirt with something Mondrian-like, and, almost against its will, echoes a Renaissance portrait.
This form belongs to the family of impossible figures, more specifically to the Penrose triangle, or tribar.
At first glance, it looks entirely manufacturable. The structure appears to be made from three identical square rings (Fig. 1), each pierced by a circular opening and arranged in three mutually perpendicular planes (Fig. 2). Together, they seem to interlock seamlessly, forming an impossible three-dimensional tribar that evokes a trefoil knot and its endless over-under weaving.
If this sculpture looks physically realizable to you, congratulations: your visual system has just accepted a geometric impossibility.
Could such an object be built? Not exactly. One solution would be to twist one of the junctions slightly, but that trick would be immediately noticeable here because some of the angles would no longer appear perfectly square (90°), as shown in the picture below. Another possibility would be to leave a small gap at one junction and view the sculpture from a carefully chosen angle, allowing perspective to hide the discontinuity.
This is how a real 3D Borromean Tribar would appear…
With summer just around the corner, I find myself drifting back to the shores of time, to this delightfully impossible little structure perched on the beach.
A drawing concept created for a children’s coloring book on optical illusions. Over the years, I’ve explored this theme through many curious and playful variations.
Are the kids engaging in creative activities inside the cabin or outside it?
The roof insists we’re looking at the exterior, while the floor pulls us firmly indoors. Both readings feel correct, yet they cancel each other out. So, there’s no clean resolution here—just a quiet visual paradox.
Curious to see more of my optical illusion book concepts, impossible worlds, and mind-bending creations? Take a stroll through my author page.
The idea itself is far from new and has inspired countless artists, architects, and photographers. It even exists in three dimensions. A notable example is Roy Lichtenstein‘s House I (1996), an ingenious sculpture that appears to be a solid house but is actually a concave construction made of angled steel planes. As viewers move around it, the structure seems to rotate and reshape itself, turning perception into part of the artwork.
Edo, under the Tokugawa shogunate. Merchants wealthy enough to unsettle the hierarchy, yet still ranked below the samurai. Power without status—watched closely, dressed carefully.
Sumptuary laws did the rest: no gold, no loud silk, no bright declarations. Only browns, greys, indigo. A forced muting of visibility.
Constraint rarely suppresses imagination. It concentrates it.
From this narrow register emerged a refined spectrum known as Shijuhattcha Hyakunezumi (四十八茶百鼠)—“48 browns, 100 greys.” Not literal numbers, but a cultural way of naming excess within restraint: an almost infinite sensitivity to difference inside what first appears uniform.
Fashion became a coded language. Subtle shifts in tone, legible only to trained eyes. Outside, discipline. Inside, excess held in reserve. A lining of rare fabric. A color hidden against the skin. A private flash revealed only when a sleeve turns in the wind.
This is iki: elegance that refuses emphasis. Presence without display. A form of refinement that collapses the moment it is named.
Its opposite is yabo (野暮): excess, insistence, the compulsion to be seen. Not morality—measure. Or the lack of it.
Today, the direction has inverted. Visibility has become currency. Those who do not perform disappear; those who do not declare are not counted. What was once failure has become strategy.
And yet the counter-move remains simple.
Lower the volume. Leave gaps. Let meaning breathe in what is not shown.
A Zen-inspired sumi-eunicursal brushstroke that gently evokes the silhouette of a sleeping cat.
A single brushstroke, almost nothing… and yet the mind completes the rest. This Zen-inspired sumi-e line suggests the presence of a sleeping cat, as the brain instinctively searches for form, balance, memory, and meaning within this minimal stroke. A curve becomes a back, a pause becomes a head, and empty space turns into stillness—peace, quietude itself. Strangely, this allegorical curve echoes the Japanese symbol ensō (円相; “circular form”), often drawn in calligraphy as a gesture that holds completeness and imperfection in the same breath.
Minimal drawing works because perception is never passive. We do not simply “see” the world; we continuously reconstruct it from fragments. A few essential marks are enough for the imagination to awaken and project life into absence. The unfinished image invites the viewer to participate in its creation.
This is one of the quiet powers of strict minimalism: removing detail does not always diminish reality — sometimes it amplifies it. In sumi-e, what is omitted matters as much as what is painted. The void is not empty; it breathes. Perhaps that is why a simple unicursal stroke can feel strangely alive.
Art begins precisely there: at the threshold where perception, imagination, and silence meet.
An illusion carved in emotion—can you spot the hidden lovers within?
I created this illustration for a commissioned series examining the underlying strata of interpersonal intimacy.
This black-and-white composition plays on figure–ground reversal. At first glance, it reads as a cave opening with a line of climbers moving along a rugged ridge. Look again, and the void resolves into the soft profile of two faces, suspended in the instant before a kiss.
Interested in commissioning my work to illustrate your next editorial project or conceptual series? Let’s discuss how we can bring your vision to light.
The stark contrast and clean silhouettes lend themselves naturally to large-scale applications. On a façade, the image finds a natural home as a mural in a Swiss village, where the alpine setting mirrors the climbers’ ascent.
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