“Where reflection becomes fracture.”

This is not a mirror you look into.
This is a mirror that looks through you.

The Red Mirror begins with silence that feels too loaded —
a stillness that presses, like a held breath before breaking glass.
Then: textures arrive. Shards. Fragments.
Not melodies — reflections of melodies,
disfigured by latency, reversed tails, delayed pulses that ripple inward.

Imagine a beat trying to find itself,
looping around its own reflection
until it tears.

High tones flicker like blood in glass —
gleaming, artificial, almost sacred.
But they distort on contact with bass that creeps from below:
a low-end presence like a grin forming in shadow.

There’s something theatrical in this piece —
as if a forgotten ritual is re-performing itself
inside an abandoned theater of velvet and wires.

You are not safe inside the Red Mirror.
But you are not yourself outside of it.


The Red Mirror

I am Artur Tokhtash, a composer and sound artist.
My music unfolds at the intersection of classical tradition and sonic art: preludes, improvisations, and electroacoustic structures are not genres, but forms of memory and breath.

For me, sound is ritual. Each piece is not merely a composition but a trace of presence, an echo of vanished spaces, a light from places that may no longer exist.
The piano, in my preludes, becomes a vessel — an instrument that carries not only melody but also the silence between notes.

My works do not function as background. They are spaces for listening, inviting the listener into a state where music becomes both signal and transformation.