An antique doll lowers her painted lids, rain-scratched and patient as a saint’s effigy.

Torn film leader opens like a valley of light — the strip itself becoming the landscape.

Salvaged leader frames announce ATLANTIK FILM and PICTURE: the archive speaking its own name.

A sculpted face rises out of brown darkness, serene as something recovered from a riverbed.

A woman in blue leans on her hand inside another era’s film, loaned briefly to this one.

Through the projector’s porthole, red letters promise advance screenings of a cinema already gone.

In the round mask of the gate, a small orchestra plays on, sealed inside its amber evening.

A circle of orange apocalypse: silhouettes gather beneath a standing figure at the world’s edge.

A red room and its dark square gate — the machinery of projection caught red-handed.

A suited man dissolves in orange projection haze, a broadcast losing faith in its subject.