Elisabeth left us the strings from her June performance, Tuning. For several days, each time I passed the strings casually hanging beneath the balcony or next to the staircase, it felt as if the wall behind me stirred and the sound lingered. Then one day, when a gust blew the front door shut, the blonde horsehair of Carapacewhispered a complaint, and the gallery felt suddenly so quiet that the tension in this fluffy sculpture screamed for the strings to be activated again. Upstairs, the woven silver sculptures remain a soothing presence—for both humans and the architecture—as they always are.