First, observe the alignment of the red circles as they move in a straight vertical path, up and down. Then keep your gaze on one of the three Xs in the middle. What do you notice?
The red circles seem to drift away from their true physical trajectories, as if they were following the curves of the static lines. This perceptual shift is known as the “Mainz-Linez Illusion“.
When you keep your gaze on the central X, the moving dots shift into peripheral vision, where spatial resolution is limited and detail is reduced. The visual system compensates by interpolating missing information based on contextual cues and prior experience. As a result, the dots become perceptually “bound” to the nearby curved lines, as if threaded on them, and their straight vertical motion is misread as oscillating.
The Mainz-Linez phenomenon reflects a broader principle: peripheral vision is largely constructive. Under certain conditions, this predictive filling-in can also distort motion judgments in real-world tasks—such as driving—where events in the periphery may be misperceived.
Impossible or undecidable figures have long fascinated artists, mathematicians, and viewers alike. Their appeal lies in a delicate tension: the structure appears perfectly logical at first glance, yet closer inspection reveals spatial contradictions that cannot exist in the physical world. My latest work revisits an idea I first explored in the 1990s—an impossible Rubik’s-style cube—now developed into a new series built across several stages, from hand-drawn construction to digital refinement and photographic interpretation.
The project began with a simple geometric framework—interlocking beams arranged to suggest a stable cubic volume. The challenge was to reinterpret an apparently ordinary three-dimensional cube into an ambiguous form that still appears structurally plausible. Through careful adjustments of line weight, contrast, and directional and formal cues, the cube gradually shifts from perceived solidity to spatial uncertainty, so that as the eye moves across the image, the object quietly reorganizes itself, producing a surreal perception in place of a coherent physical structure.
Here is the original version of the project, refined from my initial hand-drawn construction and carefully reconstructed using FreeHand MX
Two of the final images belong to the Op Art tradition, where sharp black-and-white geometry emphasizes visual tension and rhythmic structure. These compositions highlight the cube’s architectural clarity while allowing the paradox to emerge naturally from the viewer’s perceptual processing. The remaining two images take a different path: they present the object in a photographic setting, rendered with realistic lighting and textures.
Together, the four images form a small visual narrative—construction, transformation, and illusion—showing how a purely conceptual structure can evolve into multiple aesthetic forms. The Op Art versions focus on perceptual mechanics, while the photographic interpretations suggest how an impossible form might inhabit the physical world, even if only in appearance.
Fine art prints and canvas editions from this series are available through my official gallery shop, where each piece is produced using archival materials designed for long-term display.
Collectors and galleries interested in larger formats or special editions may also contact me directly for availability and production details. This series continues my exploration of perceptual geometry, where simple shapes become instruments for questioning how we construct space, depth, and visual certainty.
Here are two Kinegram installations I made, designed to educate, engage, and spark curiosity in visitors of all ages. These works make motion appear from static forms, offering an experience that is both playful and thought-provoking.
Kinegrams reveal movement through a sliding transparent panel printed with vertical black lines. As the panel moves over the underlying image, hidden sequences appear, animating the drawings like frames of a film. Each interaction lets the viewer explore how motion can emerge from stillness.
The concept of movement from static forms has long interested scientists and philosophers. Movement is a dimension unfolding in space and time—without time, there is no motion. Kinegrams make this idea tangible through touch and visual perception.
These exhibits are simple to set up but produce surprising results. I made the first panel for UNIFI, the University of Florence, and the second for the Mind Games Art Alive Museum in Sydney. Both projects engage and surprise visitors, combining education with visual impact.
“Twisting Cords,” Kinegram exhibit for UNIFI, Florence As the transparent panel etched with black lines glides across the design, colorful cords seem to twist, winding and unwinding in a mesmerizing, living rhythm.
“Flying Birds – Migration,” Kinegram exhibit for Mind Games, Sydney As the transparent panel etched with black lines glides across the static design in the background, the flock of birds rises and takes wing, transforming a still pattern into living, rhythmic motion.
A simple study in visual perception—an exploration of how a plain hexagon can evolve into the illusion of a cube. Through precise geometry and controlled form blending, static lines awaken into rhythm and volume, giving rise to a subtle sense of depth and movement.
Constructing the Illusion
Fig. A — The Base Shape Start with a regular hexagon. Divide it into three equal diamond shapes (rhombuses)—these represent the three visible faces of the cube. Each diamond has four equal sides: two acute angles (60°) and two obtuse angles (120°). Together, they form the geometric foundation of the cube.
Fig. B — Building Volume with Shape Blends In Illustrator, or any other vector software, use the Blend Tool to create a shape blend inside each diamond. Start with a small central circle and blend it toward the outer edge of the diamond. Adjust the number of blend steps to control how smooth or tight the transition appears. This process builds the cube’s apparent volume and visual tension. You’ll notice that the distance from corner to corner in the nested, diamond-like shapes is slightly greater than from side to side, creating subtle gaps that lead the eye to perceive an X across the surface.
Fig. C — Perspective and Transformation Distort slightly the hexagon to set the three diamonds in perspective. This step transforms the flat figure into a die-like cube, giving it spatial depth and presence.
Enhancing the Optical Effect Next, add horizontal background lines and some color, as shown in the two examples in the image. You can also adjust the illusion by making the visible faces of the die appear slightly concave, as in the figure on the right. This effect is created by shifting the concentric, nested diamond shapes slightly off-center—the position of the central ellipse determines whether the die appears concave or convex.
Below is the finished stage of the work. Curiously, the cube appears to hover, slide, and even emit a faint blue glow—though it remains entirely black and motionless. Ananke’s Die is a study I began in 2010, a continuing exploration of how repetitive lines and geometric precision can trick the mind into sensing motion and color where none exist.
You can get Ananke’s Die as a fine art print or canvas, available in different sizes and finishes. 👉 Buy it here
Why Ananke’s Die
I titled this work Ananke’s Die after Ananke, the Greek goddess of necessity and fate. The cube, a symbol of structure, represents order and control. Yet the three visible faces that seem to define its volume are an illusion—shifting and unstable. Under the viewer’s gaze, the shape changes, its meaning shifts, yet the form remains. This illusory die shows the balance between order, perception, and destiny, reminding us that what we think we control often exists within the unpredictable interplay of vision and inevitability.
This image also triggers multiple associations in a loop: hexagon, cube, die, chance, illusion, order, fate, contradiction. These connections show how perception mixes stability and randomness, revealing that what we see is shaped as much by the mind as by reality.
A memory from Japan, where I lived briefly in the 1980s. This piece recalls earthy colors, organic shapes, and fragments of that time. A circle emerges from a flowing field of triangles—like ripples of moonlight dancing on the sea near Kamakura.
Immersing in my Op Art is entering a space where opposing forces meet, interlock, and balance with precision and intensity. Each piece is a silent dialogue of form, line, color, perception, and mathematical structure, anchored in the language of symbols. Beneath the surface, it engages archetypes and ancient rites that still resonate in the collective unconscious.
I’ve been toying with the idea of revisiting an old, low-key material for my art: Flutex.
If you haven’t heard of it, Flutex is a patterned industrial glass from the 1930s and ’40s, mostly used to give a bit of privacy in bathrooms and office partitions.
In the ’70s, Op artist Sydney Cash started playing with this glass and found that its ribbed surface works like a lenticular screen—showing different images depending on how you look at it. The effect? Hypnotic, shifting artworks that change as you move around them.
It’s just simple glass, but it tricks perception in a really cool way.
I’m seriously considering giving it a try myself—there’s something about that mix of humble material and complex visual play that feels worth exploring again.
Science — like art — doesn’t really speak in the indicative. It doesn’t say this is, it asks what if? It begins in the conditional, in the open-ended curiosity of what could be, and unfolds in the imperative, the bold call to look, try, observe.
Discovery doesn’t start with answers — it starts with a question. And when it arrives, it rarely comes wrapped in neat descriptions. It comes as a gesture, a provocation, a set of instructions that invite us to experience something for ourselves.
Think about it: no one learns to cook from a description of flavor. They follow a recipe — a list of directives. A musician doesn’t explain the music in his head; he writes a score. And when we follow it, sound becomes experience. The composer’s vision is reborn in the hands of another.
In my own work, I do much the same — though my instrument is perception, and my notes are lines, colors, forms. Each visual illusion, each image, is a kind of instructional code. Not a description of what’s there, but an opening. If you engage with it, something clicks — not because I told you what to see, but because the form guided your eyes to see it for yourself.
G. Spencer Brown wrote that the act of drawing a distinction is the first creative move — a way of bringing something into being. In that spirit, I don’t aim to define the world. I aim to make space for new ways of seeing it.
So perhaps the real language of both science and art isn’t declarative at all.
It’s performative. It doesn’t tell you what reality is — it dares you to experience it. And in that challenge, something unexpected happens: You discover not just what the world could be — but what you might be within it.
“Follow the Light” – A visual imperative that pulls the eye into the unknown. This piece doesn’t describe — it directs. It doesn’t tell you what to see — it invites you to find out.Available as a fine art print.
Although I’ve been working in the field of Op Art since the mid-1980s, it’s important to recognize that the movement itself has a deeper history. It began to take shape in the 1960s, led by pioneering figures such as Victor Vasarely and Bridget Riley.
However, the artists who truly captivate me—the ones who expanded the language of perception—are often the outsiders. One such figure is Julio Le Parc (b. September 23, 1928), an Argentine-born artist whose practice bridges Op Art and kinetic art. Le Parc studied at the School of Fine Arts in Argentina and went on to co-found the Groupe de Recherche d’Art Visuel (GRAV). His work, honored with numerous awards, holds a prominent place in Latin American modernism.
Le Parc’s recurring themes—color, light, and movement—have always resonated with me. During the ’60s and ’70s, he explored light not just as a visual element but as a living, dynamic material. Yet by the late ’70s, his presence in the art world had faded; his output became sporadic, and for decades his work slipped quietly out of the international spotlight.
Fortunately, recent years have witnessed a renewed appreciation of his explorations in light and movement, bringing his contributions once again to the attention of a wider public.
