Isn't it fascinating that animation is not so much about design as it is about time—about how it flows and makes everything alive. Animation makes the digital resemble the world we were born into. And the world obeys entropy—things break down, burn out, age irreversibly.

Anything alive is not a single moment but a span and a transition. A gaze glides; it doesn’t jump. Even a leaf doesn’t fall suddenly.

We grow up accustomed to this rhythm—that everything happens just a little bit not immediately. That’s why an interface without any animation always feels a bit alien, as if you’ve arrived in a place with no gravity.

At the same time, humans are inclined to see a soul where there is none—in rustles, shadows, the whisper of leaves. This is an ancient survival mechanism: it’s better to run away ten times for nothing than to miss the tiger once hiding in the bushes.

That’s why when a screen “comes alive,” we feel at home, not alienated. This isn’t magic; it’s biology.

A well-animated interface—or, simply, an interface that notices you are here—will always be perceived as more trustworthy.

I am interested in experimenting with how animation and pause can direct trust. In commercial projects, this is a matter of usability. In artistic work, it becomes something more fragile: an intimate influence, the illusion of being understood, a game of response.

I also want to explore the darker sides of this phenomenon.

Today I was watching UX lectures and paused at prototype examples.

Google tested its smart glasses by strapping something like a cardboard rice cooker to people’s heads—just to understand how it would feel. Yandex, to test where it would be best to show pop-up hints in their navigation app, taped pieces of paper to a screen on a stick—manually, while in motion.

It’s amazing in its almost theatrical naivety.

I love this moment when digital logic hasn’t yet become an interface but is lived through the body, a gesture, awkwardness. As if the digital cannot be born without its own performance.

It’s funny that to test an AI’s reaction, a person has to run around with a stick.

But it’s even funnier that in these cardboard frameworks, a reality is born that we later wear on our faces.

I think that’s the bridge.

The digital may seem limitless, but it is always tested through a limited body:

through a neck that gets tired, a hand that holds a paper, eyes that can’t keep up.

To understand how a “smart” system will behave, a person has to become, for a moment, a bit of a clown, a bit of an actor.

And there’s truth in that.

The digital can do what the physical world cannot.

But it is the human who tests whether it can be believed—if you touch it with your body.