A bow compass, with a pen instead of the pencil that is its writing tool, inserted in the mandrel of a drill.
By activating the drill and holding it perpendicular to the sheet, I would speed up until the drawing wore out by itself. At a certain moment, the speed was so high that one of the elements would fall apart. The compass unhinging or the pen letting all the ink out, beyond the boundaries of the sheet, would dictate the conclusion of the work.
UNTITLED (TRAPANO) is the blueprint of a buzzing voice. It gets lost in the carpet of a stretched orchestration, revoked by an eternal preparation, for the end of time. It is the beginning of my post-rock thinking.