In a world where forms drift and colors wait in silence, a black circle rests against the wall. It is not merely an object but an axis, a turning point in space.
At its heart, a smaller form: a wheel of color, fractioned yet whole. Each segment whispers of unseen rotations, the memory of movement captured mid-flight. Does it spin? Has it just stopped? Or is it waiting to begin again?
The black circle does not impose; it listens. It absorbs the room’s light, the shifting hours, the quiet pulse of a house in thought. Against the wall, it creates a dialogue—not with noise, but with presence.
This is not an ornament. It is a celestial body, a precise coincidence, a gateway to the mechanics of perception.
You do not simply place it in a space. You discover it there.
