What do we really see when we look at the suburbs?

In The Suburbs, fences shimmer like polished metal beneath an immaculate sky, roads curve obediently before dissolving into shadow, and sidewalks suddenly collapse, revealing cosmic abysses beneath the grass. There’s a seductive order in all of this, the lawns are meticulously trimmed, geometry is dutifully obeyed. And yet, the longer we look, the stranger everything becomes.

This is not merely a depiction of suburban landscapes. It’s their dissection. Each image reveals a world so hyperreal it borders on the surreal. Mirrored fences repeat endlessly, turning boundaries into portals. Roads peel back to expose a vertigo of pixels, stars, and absence. A house, cloaked in wildflowers, floats on an island in the middle of still water, part utopia, part hallucination.

Each scene is suspended between stillness and distortion, between the comfort of routine and the thrill of illusion. These are spaces we recognize, lawns, hedges, homes, but filtered through a dreamlike logic that renders the familiar uncanny. There are no visible humans, yet everything hums with silent intimacy: as if someone has just left, or perhaps never existed.

The strength of The Suburbs lies in its ambiguity. Are these nostalgic visions or quiet critiques? Are we being invited in, or kept out? The works don’t answer. They ask. They hint at the codes of suburban life, obsession with order, desire for containment, the illusion of control, and gently unravel them.

To enter this collection is to walk a path that unfolds beneath your feet, to look up at the sky and find your own face reflected there.

It is to remember something never lived, and be unsettled by how deeply it still belongs to you.

The Suburbs doesn’t just show a place. It reveals its psychic architecture.