In disequilibrium, a man falls, waving his arms in vain as his form slices through the air. Hunched, petrified of what awaits him, he plunges into the abyss. His wrinkled body shatters into a shower of debris: traces of memories as life dims to nothingness. His falling silhouette, already far, is on the verge of disappearing into dust. Like Clamence in Albert Camus’s The Fall, the figure tumbles, drowned in remorse. Penitent, then the judge of his own crimes, the man finds liberation from his past condition in his degradation; as his bruised conscience fades, regret after regret, under the trance of confession. A cautionary tale of the pitfalls of ambition, Fall is a reminder of the virtues of restraint; and a testimony to the dangers of the ascent.

« Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. »
Confucius