Interference Photography: When Color Is No Longer a Dye, but a Structure

In 1891, French physicist Gabriel Lippmann invented interference photography, a process that could capture color without using dyes or pigments. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1908 for this work.

The principle is simple but remarkable. Light passes through an extremely fine-grained photosensitive emulsion and is reflected by a layer of mercury behind it. The incoming and reflected waves interfere, producing standing waves whose structure varies with the wavelengths of light. This microscopic interference pattern is recorded in the emulsion.

An interference photograph of a bouquet of flowers from the Lippmann Collection, preserved at Sorbonne University.

When the plate is later illuminated, its microscopic structure diffracts and reflects selected wavelengths, reproducing the colors of the original scene. Unlike conventional three-color photography, which reconstructs color from three components, Lippmann’s process stores the color information as a physical structure of interference.

The process, however, was technically demanding and never became practical for widespread photography. In 1907, the Lumière brothers introduced the Autochrome, which became the first widely successful commercial color photography process based on three-color principles.

Lippmann photography had one important advantage, though: because it used no dyes, its colors were not subject to fading caused by the deterioration of colorants over time.

And the old idea has found a new life. Researchers have adapted the principle of Lippmann’s standing waves for long-term archival data storage. In 2019, experimental storage plates were exposed to cosmic radiation aboard the International Space Station for nine months, with no detectable degradation of the stored data.

From recording color to preserving information in space, the same principle still has something to say: sometimes the most durable way to store information is to make it part of the structure itself.

☞ Further reading.

Kinegrams: Optical Animations from Static Images

Two monks stood outside a temple, watching its flag wave in the wind.
“The flag moves,” said one.
“No, the wind moves,” said the other.A third monk smiled:
“Neither moves. Your mind moves.”

Back in the early 2000s, I ran a few public art workshops exploring a deceptively simple idea: a printed image does not have to move to appear animated.

The trick is a kinegram—a static image transformed into a precise pattern of lines. Place a special acetate screen over it, and the hidden movement suddenly appears.

No electronics. No screen. No animation software. Just a carefully calculated pattern and a bit of moiré.

In these workshops, we experimented with:
• concentric circles
• simple radial patterns
• geometric textures

The resulting kinegrams produce seamless, looping animations from completely static printed images. If you’re interested in exploring the technique or collaborating, feel free to contact me.

☞ More on kinegrams.

Horse in the Snow

Is the horse walking toward you or away from you?

Video: Alesia Willard (@rudniktheroan), British Columbia, Canada, 2024.


This is a case of “bistable perception“: the image contains ambiguous visual cues that allow the brain to construct two different interpretations.

The dark silhouette against the bright snow removes important depth cues—surface detail, shadows, and clear body contours. Occlusion between the legs also makes their spatial position difficult to determine. The brain therefore fills in missing information through “top-down processing“, drawing on expectations and prior visual experience.

The horse is actually walking away from the camera. The fascinating part is that the same ambiguous image can make your brain perceive two completely different directions.

In Between the Strokes

These two minimalist Zen compositions exploit our brain’s tendency toward pareidolia and the Gestalt principle of closure: we instinctively connect isolated strokes, filling in what is missing until a familiar presence begins to emerge.

A few seemingly unrelated brushstrokes can be enough to suggest something—or someone—we recognize.

Can you see the hidden figures?

☞ For further exploration, visit my Subliminal Faces gallery.

How fast do we actually see the world?

Our visual system does not work like a camera shooting at a fixed number of frames per second. There is no single human “FPS.”

Reality is continuous, but our brain processes visual information on different time scales. Some visual mechanisms are remarkably fast; others are much slower. What we perceive depends on what we are looking at, the stimulus, its brightness and contrast, and even where it falls on the retina.

Flicker is a good example.

When a light flickers fast enough, we stop seeing individual flashes and perceive a steady light. But there is no universal cutoff such as 30 or 60 FPS. Under some conditions, humans can detect flicker well above 60 Hz, and the threshold changes with luminance, contrast, stimulus size, retinal location, and other factors.

And detecting a very brief visual event does not mean that we see at 250 FPS. Temporal resolution is not a single number. Different visual tasks have different limits.

Then there is the famous wagon-wheel illusion.

A spinning wheel can appear to slow down, stop, or even rotate backward. In films, this is a straightforward consequence of the camera sampling the motion at discrete intervals. Interestingly, similar effects can also occur under continuous illumination, suggesting that temporal sampling or aliasing may also occur within the visual system itself. The exact mechanism, however, is more complicated than simply saying that the brain “takes snapshots.”

And what about the feeling that time slows down during danger?

It can certainly feel that way. But experiments have found no evidence that frightening situations suddenly increase our temporal resolution—as if the brain switched to a higher frame rate. Instead, the experience seems to involve changes in attention, memory, and the way the event is reconstructed afterward.

So forget the idea that your brain runs at 30, 60, or 250 FPS.

There is no single frame rate for human vision.

We don’t simply record reality.

We construct our experience of it.

Train your brain by questioning your eyes

For many years, I collaborated with Publications International Ltd. (PIL) on the Brain Games™ series, creating hundreds of optical illusions for three books designed to challenge visual perception, observation, spatial reasoning, attention, and visual logic.

Optical illusions are more than visual tricks: they make the brain question its first interpretation, detect discrepancies, and construct a different explanation of what it sees. In that sense, they provide a stimulating workout for perception and reasoning.

I now put my expertise in visual perception and optical illusions at the service of publishers, educational institutions, medical centers, and other organizations looking for engaging ways to challenge and stimulate the mind.

Challenge your eyes. Make your brain work.

👉 Discover the latest book on Amazon

optical illusions - Brain Games

Bear-ly Seal

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?

Bear of seal?

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.

The Borromean Tribar

This form belongs to the family of impossible figures, more specifically to the Penrose triangle, or tribar.

impossible figure

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.

the making of the borromean tribar

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…

Life Within Life

Inside plants and living beings, there are remnants of ancient independent beings that once lived on their own, long before becoming part of the cellular world we know today. Known in biology as “organelles,” these are the living proof of ‘endosymbiotic theory’. They survive not as ghosts, but as symbiotic, working structures—still active, still essential, still carrying their own ancient logic.

From the host cell, these once-independent bacteria receive what any free organism would constantly struggle to secure: a stable, protected environment. No predators. No sudden shifts in conditions. A controlled internal world with steady access to water, nutrients, and chemical balance. In short, they are sheltered inside a living system that maintains their continuity.

Chloroplasts are the light catchers. You can think of them as tiny green alchemists, turning sunlight and water into stored energy, like weaving daylight into sugar. They belong to plants and algae, quietly building the foundation of almost every food chain on Earth.

Mitochondria are the fire keepers. They don’t create energy from light, but unlock it from what we consume, breaking down fuel to release usable power for the cell. Without them, nothing in the body moves, thinks, or repairs itself.

There is also a quieter detail: mitochondria are inherited almost exclusively from the mother. They pass from mother to child through the egg, like an intimate biological thread, while paternal mitochondria are usually removed after fertilization. Every cell therefore carries a subtle maternal imprint within its energy system.

In simplified terms, chloroplasts harness sunlight and water to generate sugars, storing energy in chemical form, while mitochondria release that stored energy for the cell by breaking down those molecules. One captures energy from light; the other unlocks it from organic matter—together sustaining the energetic cycle of complex life.

Speleology of Love – Figure–Ground Embrace

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.

Gestalt vision

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.