A dried shark fin the size of a small mountain, folded into a glass display case with a red ribbon tied at its peak, sits directly beneath a framed portrait of an elderly monk. Gold brocade wallpaper, a reflected stranger caught in the glass, and a question this photograph never quite answers about what, exactly, is being honoured here.

A storm clears over Kaohsiung just as the streetlights come up, and a single slow shutter tries to hold both a dying pink sky and a neon grid beneath it. On the tension between a dramatic sky and a genuinely busy street, and what a fifteenth of a second can and cannot be trusted to record.

Kaohsiung disappears into layers of mist, its buildings fading from sharp foreground detail into pale, ghostly silhouette. A black-and-white study in atmospheric perspective, scale, and the strange calm a fogged-in city takes on from above.

A vintage Asahi Pentax rests among coiled film reels and unopened rolls, side light raking across decades-old metal and leather. A quiet, textural study in the tools that shaped photography before anyone carried a lens in their pocket.

A pair of glasses, broken clean across the frame, held between two fingers. Some days the small things break too — right on top of everything else already breaking.