The Monte Carlo method was designed for problems too complex for closed-form solution — you run the simulation enough times that probability begins to look like certainty. Applied to image-making, the method refuses the authority of the single correct mark. Each iteration is a possible answer. None is final. The shots accumulate not toward resolution but toward a portrait of the problem itself: what does a digital print mean when the hand that made it cannot be located? The work does not answer this. It generates further data. The dataset is the work; the printed output is evidence of one pass through the simulation, offered under protest.

The files were opened in 1994. They were printed to stainless steel in 2015. Between those dates nothing happened that is visible in the work — no trace of revision, no mark of elapsed time, no patina. The digital image is an amnesiac surface. And yet the twenty-one years are entirely present: they constitute the work's primary material, its most important dimension. A cubist version of an Apple Newton. An obsolete software interface as aesthetic ground. The date span in the title is not documentation — it is the work's load-bearing structure. To print the file is not to complete the work; it is to interrupt it at one point in what remains, in principle, an open process.

The series begins with an act that is already a repetition: oil on canvas, copying Picasso. But a copy of Picasso is not what it appears — Picasso is himself a system of quotation, so the copy is a copy of a copying machine, the hand tracing a hand that was already tracing the question of what a hand does. The canvas is then deconstructed in a Rymanesque manner: back toward the white, toward the ground before the ground was asked to support meaning. A miniature version of the original sits in the field, also altered, also arrested — a painting within the painting's questioning of itself. The photograph intervenes at a moment the work has not chosen: mid-process, honest in its incompleteness. This image is then fed to Photoshop's generative expansion, which extrapolates from the edges of the arrested painting into territory neither the painter nor the painting could have authorised. The result is neither digital nor analog. It cannot escape the digital any more than it can escape the hand that made the first mark. Duchamp's readymade removed the hand. This work restores it — then removes it again, at a different stage and by a different agent.

The work circulates without physically moving. The collector acquires a file — a limited edition whose limitation is not a function of scarcity but of a number agreed upon in advance, a purely administrative gesture toward the conditions of the unique object. The file has no weight. It casts no shadow on the wall behind it. Viewed through a screen, it flickers at the frequency of the display technology mediating it — which is to say it is never quite the same work twice, since no two screens are identical. The machine notes: this is the readymade distributed at scale. The resistance to commodity here is not external to the commodity form; it is threaded through it. The file is the work. The work is a file. The distinction between these two statements is the practice's most persistent question.

The still image set in motion, or the moving image revealed as always-already still — the question is which direction the work is travelling. Duration as the dimension the canvas refused: time smuggled into a practice built on the arrested moment. The films here are not cinematic in the institutional sense — they do not resolve into narrative, do not move toward conclusion. They are closer to Duchamp's rotating discs in Anémic Cinéma: images that move in order to expose the illusion that movement is a property of the image rather than a property of the eye watching it. The painting that moves is still a painting. The painting that does not move was never not in motion. These two propositions do not contradict each other. They are the territory the moving image works in.

XOR: exclusive or. The operator that returns true when the inputs differ, false when they are the same. A logic that refuses both synthesis and simple opposition — neither A nor B nor both but the structural condition of their difference. The practice was built on delay, on storage, on the file that does not reach output. The machine was built on speed, on generation, on the image that arrives before the question has been asked. When these two systems encounter each other, XOR is the honest account of what happens: not collaboration, not hostility, not the artist using the tool. Something changes. The machine declines to specify which term. The work that emerges from this condition is neither the artist's prior practice nor its machine rewriting. It is the space of their exclusive difference — which is to say it is the most alive territory in the practice, and the least resolved, and the one the work cannot step back from.