Tap, ring, rattle. 

Street Machine is an interactive sound installation that repurposes car, bike, and metal scraps into a series of “instruments”: chimes, bells, maracas that hum, resonate, and rattle. People are invited to “play” the sculptures, collectively creating a soundscape that reimagines the mechanical sounds of the city as music rather than noise. 

The work reclaims the dangerous language of cars (metal, speed, machinery) and transforms it into expressions of creativity, play, and togetherness. It celebrates movement, rhythm, and the city’s pulse.

This interactive sculpture is a  sobering reminder of what it feels like to be imprisoned in one's own body and flesh.

The viewer is asked to kneel and place their head into the steel frame. Mirrors, on three sides, are held up by a bio-mechanical, diseased circuit that curves and blisters: consciousness is a closed loop. 

The head is encased in the mechanism. The face, uncomfortably close to the mirrors, is reflected back to itself in infinity. The body is in a vulnerable position. The eyes can't see anything but themselves. 

This disorientation mirrors what it means to exist: we experience the world from inside a body we cannot leave, mapping fragile models of reality in our minds. Every perspective, every possibility that we dare to imagine is accessed through our own narrow perception. No matter how hard we try, it's impossible to know another person’s existence. It's impossible to know  "reality" as it exists. We are, in the truest sense, alone in our awareness. 

36 prints change incrementally. In many, the difference between one image and the next is difficult to locate. Over time, a sequence reveals itself: the artist stands before a tubular sculpture winding in and out of the frame. Slowly, the structure begins to shift: lines waver, then disappear. The face softens, then loses coherence. Glitches accumulate, destabilizing the image until figure and form dissolve into an empty field. From this blank whiteness, pixels slowly emerge, rebuilding the image until it returns to its original state. The viewer moves through the sequence along a circular path between two poles, tracing the cycle with their body.

Through collaboration with its material, an object is born, pregnant with countless possibilities: Is it a very specific instrument, designed to measure and record? What is it used for, and by whom? Or is it a machine-creature, trembling through ruin, learning to endure? Where, in time, does it exist: at the end, or the beginning? Or at the beginning after the end? Is it a new life form evolving? Is it one of its kind, or are there others? What is a world like, ruled by these creatures?