We’ve long imagined technology as something outside of ourselves, an extension of our will, a tool to manipulate, a means of shaping the world. But what happens when this separation becomes porous? When the machine ceases to be a surface and starts to look back at us? When what once served us begins to act as witness?

Me and My Computer, the new project by Movsum, unfolds precisely at this point of transition, where human gesture intersects with algorithmic response, where a drawn line merges with the binary logic of code, where the boundary between the living and the inert dissolves into a dialogue that is slow, sensitive, and at times, moving.

Born in 1998 and shaped by a visual culture deeply entwined with the digital, Movsum moves fluidly between vector-based software, hip-hop culture, and lyrical abstraction. His background in rhythm and hip-hop runs deep through his artistic process, which doesn’t follow linear structure but rather builds through layering, looping, sampling, and improvisation. The influence of J Dilla, which the artist openly cites, lives not in the surface but in the method: the embrace of the imperfect gesture, the glitch as departure point, variation as a way of being.

Me and My Computer marks a clear evolution in Movsum’s practice. The core subject is no longer just form, rhythm, or the tension between geometry and flow, it’s the relationship between artist and device. And this relationship isn’t framed conceptually or explained theoretically; it’s lived. Each work is the result of prolonged interaction with the screen, the operating system, the permissions and limits of software. But more crucially, it is shaped by what escapes control: rendering errors, system crashes, forgotten windows, drafts lost and recovered.

Movsum doesn’t hide these disruptions, he centers them. Glitches are not decorative but symptomatic: fragments of another kind of intelligence, that of the machine, which, though lacking consciousness, seems to develop its own expressive logic. This recalls the Taoist principle of wu wei: the art of non-doing as a form of deep doing. Letting the environment intervene. Welcoming chaos not as failure, but as a participant in the creative process.

This posture finds its roots in a perceptual attitude we might call digital animism. The artist openly draws inspiration from Shinto philosophy, where every object in the world, a tree, a stone, a stream, can be inhabited by a spirit. In this worldview, the divide between subject and object dissolves; what matters is the relation, the intensity of presence, the quality of attention.

Movsum extends this gaze to the digital: even a system file, a UI layer, or a network map can become inhabited, not by fantasy, but by rhythm, by memory, by care. The artist is no longer a demiurge shaping raw material, but a mediator between presences. His task is not to impose vision, but to create the conditions for emergence. His works function as shared spaces, where data, intuition, and error meet in a choreography of co-authorship.

Everyday digital actions, opening a folder, renaming a file, overwriting a document, become ritual. The sacred, here, is not transcendent, but deeply immanent. Rooted in repetition, in friction, in attentiveness.

Movsum’s works do not illustrate ideas; they let them breathe. These are porous surfaces, unresolved diagrams, compositions born from the tension between intention and system. At first glance, they evoke technical structures, interfaces, information architecture. But upon deeper looking, they reveal themselves as something else entirely: traces of contact, visual remnants of a relationship evolving in time.

The computer is not depicted, but implicated. It becomes a co-author that responds, overlays, interrupts. And that interruption becomes part of the language. What emerges is an aesthetic of the fragment, where error is method and discontinuity is form. There is no linearity, only a kind of interior logic, one that belongs not to the artist alone, but to the machine that observes, adapts, and transforms.

In an age where the interface mediates nearly every experience, Me and My Computer asks us to pay attention to what we usually overlook: the rhythm behind the click, the traces left in our systems, the quiet behaviors of a digital counterpart. Not out of nostalgia or critique, but out of a need to listen differently. To think of the machine not as a tool, but as another, one that acts, reacts, and sometimes even surprises.

There is a subtle liturgical quality to Movsum’s work. Not confession, but ritual. The kind of intimacy built through repetition, care, and friction. These are not images of transcendence. They are images of co-existence. Of slow proximity. Of a sacred that lives not beyond us, but within the shared language of systems, gestures, errors, and breath.

Me and My Computer is not about offering answers. It doesn’t simplify, or decode. It generates space. A space in which to dwell with what we don’t fully understand. Where the interface ceases to be a barrier and becomes a threshold.

And perhaps, that’s the most powerful truth Movsum offers us: we’re not just looking at computers. We’re looking at ourselves, at what we become when we’re no longer alone in front of the screen, but accompanied by something that, in silence, watches us back. And gives us, fragmented, incomplete, and yet entirely real, the reflection of our digital interiority.