A single length of resin, twisted into a figure-eight, held on a black pole. The material is rigid. The form insists it once flowed. That contradiction is the whole point.

Light throws braided shadows on the wall that move when you do.

Hurtaud grew up in Brittany where rope and knot are not metaphors but daily tools. Casting that gesture in glass strips it of function, leaves only the twist, an islander's knowledge frozen mid-motion.

It is both light fixture and sculpture. The piece holds its ground. It does not perform. It waits.