In his latest body of work, Lukas Müller turns to what he calls lonely objects. Soft pastel paintings on raw linen and jute that center the overlooked, the passed-by, the almost-forgotten. A candle mid-burn. A dental prosthesis on a windowsill. A single kitchen chair rendered like a solemn portrait. Müller’s paintings are still lifes of psychic residue. Records of absence, disconnection, and fragile belonging. Many of these images come from a homeless shelter where Müller now works. These are not portraits of people, but of proximity: to collapse, to others, to oneself. In the Heim Series, moments appear unguarded and strangely sacred. A pile of spaghetti in a trash bag, a messy bunk bed, a feral pigeon in the streets. These are not documents of despair but quiet affirmations that even discarded things carry memory. Müller’s world is not populated; it echoes. Each work becomes a kind of transmitter, tuned to the strange frequency where silence meets vision. Other paintings drift further outward: suburban foxes, melting skylines, a supermarket cart submerged in a canal. These are images of in-betweenness. It’s here that Müller’s esoteric sensibility emerges. Not as mysticism, but as emotional tuning. His paintings don’t explain; they hum. They ask: what does it mean to be near something, but not quite part of it? Executed in soft pastel, the works are dry, powdery, easily undone, like memory, or breath. Pigment sinks into fabric, seeps, disappears at the edges. Healing, for Müller, isn’t catharsis. It’s a quiet act of seeing, of being with an image long enough that it stops being just an image.