Walk alone through an empty room and your footsteps grow louder. Sound hits the walls, returns to you, magnified. Fill that same room with people and the opposite happens: the sound never reaches the walls, it dissolves into the crowd before it can come back.

Waves works on the same principle, inverted. Alone in the room, its sound is generous: long, slow waves that stretch the full six meters of the piece, calm and harmonic. Bring people close, add movement, and instead of dissolving like a footstep in a crowd, the sound compounds. It speeds up. It breaks rhythm. It turns violent.

At the center of the piece is one gesture: a tensioned rope, spinning fast enough to trace a shape in the air. The same motion that draws that shape is what cuts the air into sound. There is no separate visual layer and audio layer. It is one physical event, read by the eye as form and by the ear as noise.

The room takes part too. Its geometry shapes how that sound travels, same as it shapes your footsteps. Nobody touches the piece directly. Presence is enough: where you stand, how you move, how many of you there are. The rope reads that and answers, shifting between a flat, silent line and a chaos of irregular waves, with brief moments of balance in between that never last.

Watched long enough, the piece never quite repeats itself. It rises, breaks, settles, and disappears again, like a whistle in the wind, gone the moment the room changes.