A bird’s-eye view of a fragmented earth — coastline and forest captured from orbit — handed to the algorithm as raw material. A gaze that no longer seeks proximity but distance, the vantage point that derealizes in order to better reveal the hidden structures of the visible.

This work quietly critiques the reign of the sovereign image, that symbolic photograph claiming to summarize and seal the world. The satellite view is its clearest example: total, authoritative. Here, the artist turns that authority against itself — the program doesn’t copy the image, it reads it as a field of operations, where each pixel becomes data of elevation, depth, discontinuity.

The desire to depart from the real remains intact: forest, river, coast stay recognizable. But the urge to abstract from it acts immediately, through vertical stretching and bands sliding over one another like poorly synchronized temporal strata — an unceasing recomposition, where each zone seems touched by a present that alters and displaces it, like a fraying memory.

This fragmentation speaks to something essential: the real is no longer continuous, it is segmented, and the viewer must constantly reposition themselves within it. Boundaries fray, stretch, distort — the corruption of a file as much as of a landscape.

And yet something of the orbital gaze remains: that clinical coldness proper to satellite imagery, where humanity, seen from afar, appears suddenly unified, absorbed into the geography that contains it. Lebrun doesn’t show us the planet — he shows us the way it is shown to us, and everything that, in that transmission, fails, slips, repeats, and deforms.