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.
Believe it or not, the green and purple rooftops are congruent—identical in shape, size, and angles. What changes is not the geometry, but your perception of it. Perspective, orientation, and contextual cues lead your visual system to interpret the same form as two different structures.
This effect is closely related to Shepard’s tabletop illusion and earlier studies in which identical parallelograms (A and B), when rotated (and superimposed), are perceived as different shapes, as the brain prioritizes interpretation over measurement.
Since some still insist these roofs are not congruent, I’ve put together a short animation that shows otherwise.
People often ask where my ideas come from. There is no single answer. They tend to surface quietly, shaped by places I’ve seen and cultures I’ve crossed.
“Seal or Bear?” grew out of that kind of moment. An animal suspended in the vastness of a frozen world—emerging from an ice hole, yet refusing to settle into a single identity. Is it a polar bear? A seal? Or something that holds both readings at once?
The idea came to me while traveling through northern Canada, surrounded by the stillness of Arctic landscapes and the deep presence of Inuit traditions. That silence has a way of sharpening perception—of making ambiguity feel natural rather than puzzling.
First created in the 1990s, the illusion went on to become a reference point in visual perception studies and later found its way into textbooks.
More recently, the “Seal or Bear?” illusion will be featured by the NHK Educational Corporation as part of a 2026–2027 educational series on psychology and visual perception.
At times, I find myself resembling the shipwrecked man from The Invention of Morel, stranded on an island that at first appears deserted, almost welcoming in its deceptive silence. Yet something soon shifts. The people who inhabit it do not see him. He moves among them like a breath, a weightless trace, already slipping out of reality.
Gradually, he understands that his invisibility is not accidental. These bodies, these gestures, this frozen summer light… all obey another logic. A repetition. A projection. Life here has become mechanical memory, the reconstruction of vanished moments, orchestrated by a machine born of obsession.
And in the face of this unsettling truth, a decisive turn emerges: remain outside, intact and separate, or step into the image, accept dissolution within the cycle at the cost of one’s own substance.
The story leaves behind an unnameable imprint—a nostalgia without object, as if something within us recognized a scene already lived elsewhere. It opens a fissure in what we call reality: its fragility, its occasional nature as stable illusion, and the strange condition of the individual who must vanish in order to fully belong to what he contemplates.
A film worth seeking out, or even better, the novel by Adolfo Bioy Casares on which it is based—brief in form, but long-lasting in its quiet afterlife within memory.
A Zen-inspired sumi-e unicursal 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.
Color is energy—an electromagnetic phenomenon shaped by how light is reflected from objects. What we call vision is not innate. It is largely learned, built through a slow and demanding process. We tend to take it for granted, yet someone born blind who later gains sight must spend years learning how to organize and interpret what now enters the eyes.
Seeing is neither simple nor passive. When we look at a landscape, color information reaches the visual cortex in roughly 30 milliseconds (in the occipital lobe, V1). Only a fraction later—around 70 milliseconds—shape, depth, and motion begin to emerge. In these brief intervals, the brain filters, compares, and reconstructs fragments of data, assembling them into a coherent image. What we perceive is not a direct recording of reality but a refined interpretation—an internal best guess shaped for meaning and action.
I’ve long been intrigued by the way people with partial or total visual loss engage with the world. Any serious reflection on perception or optical illusion eventually meets its counterpoint. Understanding how they “see” without sight reveals the real weight of vision itself—and how inseparably it works with the other senses, each one calibrating the rest.
When we see, move, speak, and feel at once, what actually binds sight to touch or hearing? The truth is, we notice far less than we assume. We attend only to what matters in the moment. Without the constant support of the other senses, perception would collapse into confusion, because they operate quietly in the background, guiding everyday behavior.
A striking example comes from research on inattentional blindness. In a well-known 1999 experiment by Daniel Simons and Christopher Chabris, participants watched a video and counted basketball passes between two teams. Nearly 40 percent failed to notice a person in a gorilla suit walking through the scene, pausing, even dancing, before exiting. The demonstration is disarming in its simplicity: we do not see what we do not attend to—even when it stands directly in front of us.
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The blue and yellow arrows in this video seem to move up and down in a rhythmic dance—yet their motion is strictly horizontal and uniform. This illusion is a variation of the “Stepping Feet Motion” effect, first demonstrated by Stuart Anstis in 2003.
In the original phenomenon, two objects glide side by side at a constant speed across a striped background, but appear to alternately speed up and slow down, creating a stepping or oscillatory effect. The visual system misreads contrast differences as changes in motion, producing a false sense of vertical or staggered movement.
It’s not uncommon to read, on a snack package, the phrase “with chocolate taste,” often printed in bold uppercase. The wording plays a subtle trick on the mind. Most people assume the product must contain chocolate. Yet a flavor is not a substance. More often than not, what we bite into carries only the impression—an illusion—of chocolate.
The same applies to color. Our brain is just as easily misled. Colors behave like flavors: they may smell—pardon… look—like a particular hue, but they are subjective sensations rather than fixed properties of the outside world. They shift with context, changing according to their surroundings. More striking still, identical colors can appear different under certain conditions, while different colors may look the same. This phenomenon is known as color induction.
Even texture plays a role. It can alter how we perceive a color’s intensity and tone. Take beer and an egg yolk: they may share the same orange hue and gradation. Yet the brain reads them differently. The glass and the liquid are perceived as translucent, so their color seems lighter, duller, more diluted. The yolk, by contrast, appears opaque, with a richer, more glossy, more solid color.
“The Master of Numbers” is an Op Art photomosaic portrait of the renowned physicist, created from a collection of photographs of numbers. Each detail contributes to a visual exploration of mathematics, perception, and pattern. The project took me two years to complete, photographing numbers in the most unusual places and objects, and bringing them together into a single portrait.
And a little secret: tucked inside the mosaic is a tiny portrait of me and my wife—a fun, hidden signature and a personal touch.
Limited edition posters and prints are available through my online gallery.