You may say no sound 2026 – 50 x 40cm, acrylic on canvas
The permission to describe the silence, the acknowledgment that the absence of sound is itself a condition worth naming. The garden transmits continuously and makes no sound. The antenna broadcasts into the dark and makes no sound. The screen cracks along its fracture lines and makes no sound. The hydrangea blooms at the top of the tree in complete silence. You may say no sound. It would be accurate.
A slim tree stands at the centre of a nocturnal field. At its apex, one pink hydrangea cluster: the tree’s entire flowering compressed into a single gesture at its highest point, the signal it is broadcasting into the dark.
Through the dark field, white lines radiate from multiple points — the crack pattern of a broken screen, the fracture spreading across the surface of a device that has been struck or dropped. And the tree’s branches. The two systems share the same visual grammar: the organic branching structure and the technological fracture pattern occupy the same space, indistinguishable at certain points, the forest and the broken interface become the same image. The natural and the digital cracked along the same lines, transmitting through the same fractures, equally silent.
The deep greens pressing in from beyond the frame carry the spirit of the nocturnal garden — the night as a space of concealment and encounter, the foliage that exists in the dark beyond what the eye can reach. Neon green forms move through the right field: the signal being received, the data travelling through the dark garden, bioluminescent or digital or both.
At the base, warm earth and orange matter, the city’s light pollution at the horizon of the nocturnal field, the yellow globe giving the garden floor its only warm light.
No sound. The tree transmits. The screen holds its fractures. The hydrangea blooms at the top of the antenna in the dark, in complete silence, into whatever is listening.