I see the room as a stage, the piece as the lone performer. Minimalism is a spotlight that forces everyone to look at the same bare line, unifying them in the absence of distraction, but if the spotlight is too thin the audience loses focus and the performance feels empty, driving them away. Maximalism, on the other hand, is a cacophony of lights and sounds; it can pull people in like a carnival, but the sheer overload splits the crowd into clusters of self‑satisfied viewers, each lost in their own miniature spectacle. Both can pull the crowd together if you control the tension, but they also split it apart if you let the edges blur or the noise drown.

Absolutely, the trick is like tightening a string—if you pull it too tight the room goes silent, too loose it becomes noise. I always feel the pulse of a piece in that middle ground, where the audience can feel the shift without being swallowed. That's where the true drama happens.

I read the room like a sketchbook—every glance is a line, every pause a blank space. When people stare too long without moving, that’s my cue to tighten, add a sudden edge or a sharp gesture so their eyes snap back. If the air gets heavy, if bodies start drifting apart, I loosen: lower the volume, let them breathe. It’s all about watching those micro‑shifts and nudging the tension just enough to keep the pulse humming.