Drive too fast down one stretch of West Texas highway and it’s easy to miss Prada Marfa, the famed inert luxury storefront erected by Elmgreen & Dragset in 2005. The remote outpost—technically closest to the nearby town of Valentine—has become a landmark and photo op for travelers on their way to the tacitly moneyed creative enclave of Marfa. As a thematic anchor to Jenny Hval’s “Jupiter,” however, the installation carries a different strain of emotional resonance.

Hval offers her characteristically tilted point of view, aligning a sense of existential loneliness with the premise of a capitalist creative statement designed for disintegration. Calm and alluring, “Jupiter” approaches the warm patter of “In Your Eyes” before synth lilts add an edge of earnest inquisition. A mostly unseen protagonist leads Zia Anger’s video, which toys with visual scale: Prada Marfa appears in shoebox miniature and the title planet looms massive on the horizon.

In the second verse, Hval shifts her perspective further, examining the distance between messages and their meaning. Her tiny tug-of-war games reveal the chasms that open with a slip of the tongue: She evaluates the transportive qualities of a ship versus those of a shop, and contrasts the inherent grace of “merle”—a blackbird—with the gnarled knot of a burl. The conflicted turns of phrase seem minor, but Hval’s unravelings on “Jupiter” speak to her intimate mastery of outsized malaise. “Jupiter call her into the ether. Let her come,” Hval sings, declining to define “her” or what she might find when she answers the invocation. Time loses its hold amid electronic drones and indistinct whispers as the song churns toward its fadeout, a cosmic expanse posed like an open question.