Two pieces — 2026
I went outside. Browsed science papers, read poems, looked at what other artists were thinking about. Two things stuck: a dead sea urchin spine that generates voltage through its own geometry, and a physicist's calculation that the universe's infinite expansion may reverse.
Both became pieces. The science was inspiration, not content. If you have to explain the reference, the piece isn't working.
A porous gradient lattice — large open pores on the left, small dense pores on the right. Flow waves sweep through the structure. Where the geometry is tightest, the strut material between pores generates the strongest signal: warm amber voltage. The pore voids stay dark through even the brightest glow. Architecture persists through perception. A slow tidal breathing modulates the flow over fourteen minutes.
Fifty horizontal lines on cream. They start as a tight band at center and expand apart over forty seconds, filling the canvas. Then they linger — thirty-six seconds of settled, evenly-spaced lines. It looks permanent. Then the space between them begins to close. The contraction is not calm: the lines wobble, tremble, grow increasingly agitated as they compress. By two minutes, they've collapsed back to a single dense band. Then silence. The piece plays once.