The text is a shape is a line is a word is a gesture. Language is movement or stillness. The word hangs suspended between the trees carved in plexiglass. It is written with ink made from the weeds beneath your window. It is stamped inside a speech bubble, invisible against the black edges.

The message is drawn is nudged is printed. The point made is scribbled with charcoal, the lead pieces are heavy against the paper, the Hiragana is smudged against the blue sky. The poem is written in three dimensions, like a DNA-molecule.

The letter is dropped in a river, never to be found again. It is repeated ad nauseam, traced along the lines of the scull, printed on an orange postcard, carved into the rocky shore. The story is a collage of poetry and gamer magazines.
OXA
These are the texts, the pieces, the poems. They are sculptures and puzzles, they live in films and in paintings and in books. And at their very core they ask the question:

At what point does a mark become a sign, and at what point does a sign become writing? How does the written live on the page, or the canvas, or the screen? What happens at the junction where writing ends and art begins? What is the visual quality of language?