Point (of view)

I installed a blinking point of light to the night sky, similar to the warning lights on distant buildings, but pulsing slower, about a second with a 2.5 seconds gap.

Untethered to any physical surface, the point becomes the locus of the viewer’s gaze.

Can a focal point, by itself, constitute a work?

And if so, how do we measure something whose “size” depends entirely on the space it looks into?

Here, “background” is not just environment—it is the entire field of visual information beyond the material core of the work.

Everything outside, everything between, forms an imagined dimension. Any artwork requires multiple simultaneous dimensions to exist; no single one can stand alone.

I minimized the physical presence of the piece so that the light vanishes when off, and during the day contributes almost nothing to the scene.

The site contains several levels of elevation, offering different vantage points to make the notion of “background” palpable.

Seen from directly beneath, the sky erases depth, flattening the work and dissolving scale.

When the city lights form the backdrop, movement by the viewer produces the illusion that the point shifts—evidence that perception, not the object, is what moves.

The work remains constant; only the viewpoint alters its reading.

If Plaza explored how a material boundary can construct an imagined interior, then Point (of View) flips that logic outward.

A single point becomes the anchor from which the imagined space expands, and its boundary is something that recedes into peripheral vision—an edge that cannot be directly observed.

Once the periphery becomes the center, the original center dissolves.

This imagined range is not an abstract, world-sized notion like “the Earth is round,” but something grounded in the limits and reach of human sight.