A structure built near the Egyptian border, its blocks packed with forty-five charges. A sensor reads the artist's pulse; one charge fires every six heartbeats. The more it collapses, the faster her heart beats — and the faster it collapses.
A woman sings in a field of tethered balloons and her voice cannot be heard: a vocoder turns it into the frequencies of a locust swarm. Each word ending in s fires an ignition that releases a balloon and burns it. In the gallery, Tesla coils discharge into fluorescent tubes wired to nothing, at the same frequencies, and play alongside.
Software reads the live solar feed from NASA's SDO observatory — ray frequencies, surface oscillations, the sun's position relative to the earth — and a neural network composes from them an organ-like score. A sundial that keeps time without announcing an hour.
A recording of the artist's late grandmother singing drives every device in the room. Her face is projected onto vapour that issues from the ducting only while she sings, so the figure she is made of disperses each time her breath fails.
A program searches the news for the word hope and reads aloud the sentence it appears in, then finds another, indefinitely. Nothing is composed; the supply does not run out. It runs for as long as it is left running.
She locks herself in a white water tank, furnished with a cut-down chair and a jug of flowers, and holds the hose that fills it. Three cameras film from inside as the water closes over her. The emptied tank stands beside the projection, lit from within.
Endless loops drawn from four orders of material — a fruit lifted from Bosch, a plant, a living organism recorded under magnification, solar video from NASA — each subjected to the same treatment until it arrives at the same condition. Shown here as the opening of this site.