There is a moment when art, removed from life, begins to feel distant. Enclosed within white walls, protected by silence that does not belong to the body, it can become static — admired, yet untouched. Seen, but not felt. Art does not disappear there. But something essential quiets down.

There are things that cannot be designed. They can only be heard. Rhythm is one of them. Before form appears, before space takes shape, before a decision is made about color, material, or light — there is rhythm.