"The sky above the port was the colour of television, tuned to a dead channel."

– Neuromancer William Gibson

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Beneath the flickering glow of vintage screens, a city emerges— fragmented, recursive, and alive with the hum of forgotten technologies. Through the lens of the Sony MaViCa FD200, a relic of the digital dawn, the urban night is transformed into something both haunting and electric. These are not places we know but places we’ve dreamed: cityscapes that dissolve into light and shadow, their forms abstracted into the kind of fractured visions that J.G. Ballard might have conjured—a realm where concrete and circuitry merge, and the city itself becomes an organism, feeding on its own endless reflections.

 

The MaViCa, with its inbuilt solarized effect, translates the metropolis into a shimmering grid, a cybernetic dream of glass and neon. Plugged into Toshiyuki Kita-designed Sharp televisions, the camera becomes a recursive viewer, its images looping endlessly, as if the city were replaying itself on an infinite reel. These screens whisper of William Gibson’s meditations on technology and decay—a world where memory and machine collapse into one, where the urban night becomes a stage for abstraction, a poetry of light and entropy.

 

This is not photography but transmission, a dialogue between past and present, analogue ghosts speaking through digital forms. The lo- fi distortions evoke a nostalgia for futures that never arrived, where cities were imagined as vast networks, luminous and alien. In these nocturnal visions, the urban landscape unravels into an otherworldly geometry, its boundaries blurred and dissolved.

 

It is a city that belongs to screens, to loops, to the endless reflection of technology gazing at itself. And it leaves us adrift, somewhere between memory and imagination, between the concrete and the spectral—wandering in the shimmering afterglow of the digital dream.