In Existence Without Form, Harman advances the language of postpainting with a near-future vision where ecology, memory, and resistance unravel across decaying urban structures. These works are not static—they pulse with a coded urgency, intertwined with an AI-generated music film that mirrors the visual rhythm. Together, they build a mythological framework for a world consumed by hyper-surveillance and synthetic life.
At the core are hooded figures—anonymous and untraceable—who breed and release real fish into poisoned rivers. Not as art, but as survival. Their actions are quiet refusals: ritual reclaimed in a system designed to forget. Opposing them is “The CORP,” a faceless logic of control, seeding robotic fish to hunt the living. Rivers become test sites. Streets, corridors for robot greyhounds and mechanical patrols.
Yet the hooded ones persist—moving wordlessly, upstream, against the algorithm. Not to win. Not to be seen.
These cityscapes flicker with ghosted glass, rusted metal, and wet concrete, haunted by digital residue. Each image blurs the line between the sacred and the synthetic, surveillance and sanctum. Water becomes wire. Identity, a smudge.
In Harman’s hands, postpainting becomes resistance—not through spectacle, but through the simple act of enduring. No hero. No crescendo. Just life, refusing to vanish.
