réson is a quiet game.
A field of dots. Lines drawn between them sing. Closed shapes bloom into chord. Every two parallels invite a pulse. The larger the form, the deeper the room becomes.
Nothing is scored. Nothing is timed. There is no win. To play is to compose; to leave is to leave intact.
The piece continues without you, as a room continues without its visitor. Return and find it changed.
A drift, not a destination. A small refusal of the spectacle. Form is its own argument: a circle yellow against gray; a line drawn for the joy of the drawing.
Make a fragment. Send it to someone who needs a minute.
a stakseskats piece
a poster of this composition