Composed, filmed, and edited during early Covid lockdowns, Adrienne Teicher’s Insecure liquefies the domestic into a feed of glitching selfhood. Colored projections stain her body and walls—electric Rorschachs that melt to the mantra “I want you to see me / to feed me / to heal me.” Filmed alone, her movements pixelate into grotesque puppetry: limbs stretched by lens distortion, face a meltwater between light and shadow. Her image becomes confessional booth and funhouse mirror, flattening flesh into cartoon avatars that scream LOOK AT ME while cringing behind artifice.

Teicher’s voice frays at the edges—from demonic ASMR to autotuned panic attack. The title’s mantra—inseCURE, CUREinsecure—dissolves language into pathogen. The virus here is proxy: a phantom “other,” a social rot that predates Covid isolation but is momentarily subsumed by it.

Live iterations escalate the rupture. Poems disintegrate into granular synthesis, Teicher’s body a flickering UI of desire and shame. Audiences confront a digital mime trapped in meatspace, liminal and shuddering at the boundaries between consciousnesses. Here, ancient alienation colonises or is colonised by the digital void into which intimacy ever further retreats.