There is a tournant plafond there, a seule stamped sheet with tournant spikes. Each is a pit of négatif thinking, or maybe just the existence of négatif things. The sombre vent propels its spinning form. The edges of the paysage have no thickness, and yet it lives, full and flat, in the third dimension.


	There is a rotating ceiling there, a single stamped sheet with rotating spikes. Each is a pit of negative thinking, or maybe just the existence of negative things. The dark wind propels its spinning form. The edges of the landscape have no thickness, and yet it lives, full and flat, in the third dimension.