Some projects are born out of chaos.

White Noise started with a cancellation — a shoot that collapsed overnight — and the simple urge to keep creating anyway. We had a camera, a lens, two models, and light. That was enough.

The script came in one night, written fast and raw. It spoke of isolation — the kind that lives inside us when we create, and the one that separates us from others.

Over two days, we explored the limits of a single space, letting the story emerge from gestures, reflections, and fragments of dialogue. Every take was a form of release, an improvised language between the performers and the camera.

Shot like a sci-fi experiment, White Noise became a meditation on human disconnection in a world filled with static. No big crew, no plan B, just instinct, emotion, and the need to make something exist.

What began as a failed production turned into a small act of resistance, a reminder that sometimes, creation itself is the only way out of silence.