Light that pours away and still holds a shape
The water inside an ocean vortex and the water outside it are the same water — what makes the vortex a thing is the order, not the material. This is a room of haze, beams and mirrored walls built on that claim. Light streams outward without pause, and at the centre it falls into an order and stands there: a sculpture with no surface, whose inside and outside are the same light, standing in a lattice of its own reflections that carries on past anywhere the eye can follow. It runs ten movements — the vortex gathers, is born, wakes and travels the room, comes close enough to find the edge of anyone standing in it, thins to nearly pure haze, opens its middle until the vortices become rings and the room holds two kinds of order at once, splits from its own reflection until the two no longer match, floods until every sculpture turns the room together with the first leaning as it goes, empties until nothing is left but the room and the light that was always in it, and at the last drops the beams entirely and lets colour alone do the holding. It draws you in close and stands you back off again as it goes, and turns you through the room at a pace that changes with it — quickest where there is most to take in, and not at all in the rest, where the room and the shot come to a stop together. Walk into the light and the order gives way around you, and takes a moment to close behind. Stand still and the room turns toward you; stand still with someone else and it gives up one of its own sculptures to hold the one between you.