About the work

The megaphone, placed on the ground, has no voice here. It is an instrument of projection, of making oneself heard across distance, but these men are leaning into the silence, into the immediate. Their hands, calloused and familiar with the earth, do not reach for it. There is a sense that the world they inhabit, here at the garden's edge, demands a different kind of communication—one of shared understanding without utterance, of knowing without needing to explain. The sun has warmed the wood beneath their fingers, a slow warmth that bypasses the ear entirely. What is left to amplify, when everything that matters is already felt, already understood? The garden breathes its own quiet truths.