March #010. There is a kind of collapse that doesn't announce itself with noise. It arrives in stillness — in the suspended moment between preparation and expression, when everything built to amplify human feeling stands empty and waiting, and the question of whether sound will ever come remains genuinely open.
This work found me during a period when I was thinking seriously about what structures hold and what they cost to maintain. The hall is impossible in the way that institutions become impossible over time — too grand, too perfect, too certain of its own necessity. It was built on the faith that music would always come, that human devotion would perpetually fill it. That faith is architectural. It is also a form of vulnerability.
What moves me about this fragment is the honest tension it holds without resolving. The figures are not performing readiness — they are inside the private labor that precedes all public expression, the part that happens before the collapse into sound. And the space around them, for all its magnificence, cannot protect them from that threshold. It only amplifies the stakes.
This is what Collapse Aesthetics taught me to recognize: that grandeur and fragility are not opposites but collaborators. The most immense structures reveal their nature most clearly in the moment before they must prove themselves. The hall does not collapse here. But it trembles on that edge, holding its breath alongside the two figures who carry the weight of everything it was built to receive.
