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Most of what we build moves. A lamp turns under changing light, eleven friends cross five worlds, a thread of smoke gathers when you hold. That work lives on a canvas, and a canvas is a closed box. A screen reader sees one element. Search sees nothing. A phone on low battery sees a black rectangle and a spinner.

So this page is the opposite. Every name on it is text. You can select it, search it, hear it read aloud, move through it with the Tab key, and zoom it to four times its size. If your browser has no graphics card at all, you still get the names of the work and a way to reach each one.

The canvas is the show. The page is the building it stands in.

That is not a compromise. It is the part of a site people actually use. A visitor decides in a few seconds whether a place is worth their time, and they decide by reading. The film can come after.

We hold the moving pieces to the same rule. Tricolor tells its whole story as text when motion is reduced, before any 3D code loads. Plinth names its three lights on plain buttons you can reach from the keyboard. The building has to work with the lights off.

Plinth started as a list of things we would not do. No second object. No orbiting camera. No particles drifting up to fill the frame. One lamp on one block, and a room dark enough that the light has something to do.

The lamp is called Hollow Moon: a short travertine drum, a brushed brass collar, a smoked glass dome with the filament showing through. Stone, metal, glass. Each one answers light in its own way, and that difference is the whole piece. Move between dawn, noon and tungsten and you watch three materials disagree about the same room.

Nothing expensive is photographed in a hurry.

The camera does not drift. It moves to a stop and holds there, the way you would stand still in a gallery. Motion that never settles makes an object feel cheap, because nothing expensive is photographed in a hurry.

Restraint is also a budget. One object means every hour goes into that object: the surface of the stone, the brushing on the brass, the way the light falls off across the block. A crowded scene spreads the same hours thin. We would rather show you one thing made well than ten things made quickly.

Tricolor has no dialogue. Eleven small figures stand by a night lake under a blossom tree, and you choose one to lead. Then the group crosses five worlds: prism, chrome, sequin, jelly and dream.

Without words, the story has to live in what the figures do. Friends pour their light into the one who leads. At the gate in the jelly world the leader asks for help, and your hold is what fills them. The friends they rescue take on the leader’s light and link hands. Nobody explains any of it. You watch it happen, and you took part.

Nobody explains any of it. You watch it happen, and you took part.

Wordless does not mean closed. When a visitor asks for reduced motion, Tricolor skips the 3D entirely and tells the same journey in text, one room at a time. Writing that version made us decide what each world is actually for, in one sentence, with nothing to hide behind.

That text version is also why this page exists. Once the story could be told in plain type, we knew the rest of the work could be too.