Plus Angel (2023) drifts between sound and image, a slow negotiation of rhythm and perception. The drone by Angus Andrew is both gravity and mist, a weightless pressure that folds time into vibration. It does not lead or follow but surrounds, holding the space in suspension. Its tones move like fog through glass, shaping what can be seen without ever revealing what lies beyond.

Within this field, multiple cameras, composed and coded by Dan Moore, glides through a constructed forest, a place both artificial and alive. The scene anchored by a shining silver orb trembles in its own reflection. Trees shimmer and split, their outlines dissolving into patterns of color and noise. The cameras wanders without destination, tracing invisible paths through a forest, its view rearranges itself with every breath of sound.

Your view fractures as you move forward. Vision becomes a surface of interference, a collage of dislocated textures. The forest no longer represents the world but performs it, scattering perception into light and movement. The drone presses on, unbroken, binding these fragments into a single, vibrating field where coherence flickers and disappears.

Plus Angel becomes a study in drift. Looking turns into listening, and the act of perception becomes rhythmic, recursive, and unstable. The forest hums in resonance with the drone, a site of quiet collapse where sound and sight lose their edges and meaning gathers in the tremor between them.