"Where we once aligned" explores the historical and epistemological foundations of landscape measurement. Its point of departure is the geodetic practice of Carl Friedrich Gauss , whose 19th-century surveys helped shape the image of a rationalized, mathematically comprehensible world. At the center stands the Desenberg near Warburg (North Rhine-Westphalia)—not a main triangulation point, but a secondary point that enabled Gauss’s large-scale triangulation of the Kingdom of Hanover. In the work, this site once again becomes the setting of a measurement: a performer moves toward the mountain with a modified surveyor’s wheel. The instrument registers the unevenness of the ground and translates it into acoustic signals generated in real time and recorded on magnetic tape. In doing so, the work intertwines historical methods of scientific precision with a contemporary, sensorially expanded practice of measurement. While Gauss translated space into coordinates through mathematical abstraction, here a singular auditory cartography of the terrain emerges—a sonic landscape that renders physical reality as process and resistance. "Where we once aligned" reflects the tension between objectivity and experience, between scientific representation and embodied presence. The work reveals that every act of measuring space is also an embodied form of knowledge —a situated encounter in which perception, technology, and landscape temporarily resonate with one another.

In the second part of the Triangulation series, inspired by Carl Friedrich Gauss' research in his ‘Hanoverian land survey’, I created a rich soundscape using field recordings. The auditory journey began once again in Göttingen (Gauss' place of work) and proceeded in an isosceles triangle via Portugal to Greece. This soundscape was overlaid with melodies constructed from chords with equal melodic intervals between the individual notes. The resulting narrative reflects the idea of measurement and order, exploring not only geographical but also emotional and cultural spaces.

Two loudspeakers are bolted face-to-face, creating a unified sonic object. They emit a 40Hz frequency—felt as much as heard—modulated by a prerecorded heartbeat rhythm: Du Dum, Du Dum. This low frequency exists at the threshold of audibility, operating more as vibration than conventional sound, rumbling at the edge of what the body can perceive versus what it can hear. Visitors are invited to touch and handle the speakers directly, letting the vibrations travel through their hands, arms, and chest. The physical sensation becomes inseparable from the auditory experience—the heartbeat isn't simply played; it's transmitted, resonating through bone and tissue. The work gestures towards a primal intimacy of a shared heartbeat: the first sound we experience in utero, the reassurance of feeling a pulse against our own chest, the vulnerability of letting someone sense our internal rhythms. By handling the speakers, visitors momentarily inhabit this space of bodily proximity and emotional exposure. The boundary between external sound and internal sensation dissolves—you don't just listen to the heartbeat; you feel it as if it were your own, or as if you were holding someone close enough to sync with their pulse. The visitor becomes both observer and participant, simultaneously outside the work and absorbed into it. The act of touching transforms passive listening into corporeal dialogue. Heartbeats: Edda and Elko

Listening Session unfolds as a meditative experiment in perception, situating the act of listening between scientific observation and poetic contemplation. Using a self-designed VLF/ELF antenna, the work receives and records extremely low-frequency electromagnetic signals — a spectrum of so-called Natural Radio emissions generated by atmospheric and magnetospheric events such as lightning discharges and interactions of charged particles in the Earth’s magnetic field. Over the course of three months, the artist produced 22 recordings at various sites, each documented with precise coordinates, timestamps, and weather data. While the methodology recalls scientific field research, the intention is not empirical measurement but the uncovering of a subtle poetics of phenomena — an encounter with invisible processes that shape the sonic and electromagnetic landscape. In the exhibition, Listening Session appears as a 30-minute real-time video installation. A single vertical metal rod — the antenna — stands quietly within a landscape. Through wireless headphones, visitors hear the simultaneous recording of the electromagnetic activity captured at that site. The stillness of the image contrasts with the vibrancy of the sound, creating a heightened awareness of both the space and the act of listening itself. The work explicitly resonates with Alvin Lucier’s Sferics (1981) — a seminal piece in which Lucier recorded natural radio emissions produced by lightning in the ionosphere using special antennas and receivers. “If you put an antenna and a receiver, then you can hear them, they are very beautiful. That is all I have done, that is to make it available to people to hear. Very simple,” Lucier remarked about Sferics. Similarly, Listening Session extends this gesture of making the inaudible audible. Yet where Lucier exposed natural radio as sound, this work situates the act of listening within a field of relations — between technology, landscape, and perception. Listening Session situates itself within the field of artistic research, where the tools of science are repurposed for poetic rather than utilitarian ends. It invites viewers to engage with the inaudible, to attend to what normally escapes perception. The work proposes listening as a form of attention, of meditation — and as a means to encounter the invisible rhythms that shape our world.

From a distance, Elko Braas' installation looks like a minimalist sculpture: two lines that seem to float in the room at a fragile angle. But up close, the seemingly simple joint turns out to be an elaborate mechanism, with a stone in the middle keeping it balanced – or being kept balanced. The fragility of the construction takes on a new dimension when observing the occasional trembling of the joint mechanism. It is not only the laws of statics and material properties that interact in this balancing act, but also actuators and reactors – an intelligent, computer-controlled system of six motors. Elko Braas's thoughtful works are based on technical ideas that develop a poetic depth in their absurdity and in the interplay of analogue and digital components. He succeeds in negotiating questions of immaterial digital space on a physical, plastically comprehensible level. For TRY KEEPING IT BALANCED, Braas has two camera stabilisation systems, known as ‘gimbals’, working against each other. These are complex apertures that function well as systems in their own right. However, when they are interlocked against each other, the chaotic entanglement of feedback, control deviation and steering results in a permanently unstable state. The margins resulting from mechanical inadequacies and limited computing power become visible. The stone held between them threatens to fall to the ground at any moment. This self-organising balancing of forces can be compared, for example, to moments of overload that we experience on a daily basis at many levels. Here, the trust we place in open cybernetic systems, on which we rely in almost all areas of life even though they remain impenetrable in their hypercomplexity, is staged as an unsettling irritation. A sensory experience that raises the question of how we feel today about the statement by computer scientist Niklaus Wirth, who advises against developing systems whose behaviour remains incomprehensible to the individual: "The assumption that complex systems require armies of designers and programmers is wrong. A system that is not understood in its entirety or at least to a considerable extent in detail by a single person should probably not be built.

Thelonius Monk, Thelnius Mnk, Thlns Mk, Tls M, T is a sound installation comprising a turntable, speakers, amplifier, and a wax-cast of the vinyl recording of jazz musician Thelonius Monk. This wax pressing undergoes continuous playback, with each cycle causing the stylus to gradually erode the record's surface. Through successive playbacks, the information encoded in the grooves progressively transforms. The installation Thelonius Monk, Thelnius Mnk, Thlns Mk, Tls M, T directs attention to the subtle evolution of the auditory experience, wherein the needle's abrasive interaction with the vinyl doesn't merely degrade the original recording but generates an evolving sonic landscape—one that continuously incorporates new elements born from physical deterioration. This is a recording after the thirteenth time playback.