Connection has been lost. Not just the internet connection, though that too. The connection between the button and the call, between the door and security, between the sign and its meaning, between service and assistance, between promise and action has also disappeared. Everyday life increasingly resembles a frozen interface that continues to display elegant icons. Everything appears to be there on the screen: online services, navigation, support, login, logout, feedback. But you press a button, and nothing happens. Or something entirely different happens instead.

The artists’ collective Union of the Impossible continues its exploration of found images: accidental photographs and visual absurdities gathered from the internet and everyday life. In this project, the online image is more than a visual find. It is a document of a failure of connection between people and their environment. On a phone screen, such images exist for only a fraction of a second: a chicken where a button should be, “online services” without being online, a door bearing the traces of repeated break-ins, an arrow pointing vaguely “around the corner,” road markings that have disintegrated into fragments. Yet once translated into painting, this immediate effect draws out. The image loses its speed, exits the regime of instant consumption, and becomes an unsettling sign of normality.

Yet the exhibition does not aspire to gloom. Union of the Impossible remains an almost Dadaist collective: light, perceptive, and attuned to the unsettling beauty of everyday malfunction. Here, failure ceases to be accidental and becomes a sign. A broken latch speaks of repeated intrusion, violated boundaries, the impossibility of shutting oneself off; a notice on a door proposes a new philosophy of customer service: “We are not the people you need. Go around the corner.” The service exists, but the response does not. Everything remains suspended in the state of “Try Again Later.” What was meant to be temporary becomes a permanent landscape: adhesive tape, handwritten notes, arrows, temporary entrances, broken bolts—no longer exceptions, but the language of the environment itself.

The white border framing almost every painting, reminiscent of a Polaroid photograph, reinforces the sense of found evidence. It is as though someone happened to press the shutter at the precise moment reality revealed its internal logic: “Working—but not here,” “There is an entrance—but not for you,” “The service is available—but there is no connection.” It all seems too consistent to be accidental, and too disturbing to be dismissed as mere absurdity. Distance does not dissolve anxiety; it makes it bearable.