You step on it, and the sound begins.
Not your voice—but its voice. The wood beneath you, the mirrors around you, the lights and wires—they light up, echo, respond. When you move, they sing.
This isn’t an installation you watch.
It’s one you enter. Between two mirrors stands a dead tree trunk, braced in metal like a fossil suspended between systems. But it doesn’t stay quiet. It’s wired, lit, activated.
Light bounces off its rough surface like fragments of memory; sound loops and responds through pedals beneath your feet—not as command, but as resonance.
You may never know exactly what you’ve triggered.
Rhythms blur with delay. Chorus fragments swirl with feedback. It feels like performing a duet with a version of yourself you didn’t rehearse with.
It’s not a performance. It’s not a ritual.
It’s a dual system—between control and being controlled, between nature and circuit, between image and body. Everything reflects everything.
And what you see, might not be you.
Or maybe it is. From a different timeline.
