How a question from Egypt led to a monument of stone, language and void

In 2025 I was approached by an architecture firm from Egypt with offices in several countries across the Middle East. The firm works on large-scale projects for public space, including developments in and around New Cairo.

The question they asked me seemed straightforward at first:

Can you design a monumental artwork for public space that carries meaning, yet at the same time leaves room for interpretation?

That turned out to be anything but straightforward.

As a sculptor, I have worked for years with stone, space, symbolism and experience. But a monument for a city demands more than form alone. It must function on multiple levels. It must be legible from a distance, carry meaning across different cultures, and at the same time retain its own artistic identity.

The starting point: a single word

In that search, I found myself arriving at a single word:

Āyah (آيَة).

A word often translated as sign, verse or indication. Not a fixed truth, but something that points toward a deeper meaning.

That word became the starting point for an investigation into language, meaning, stone and memory.

What began as a design question for public space gradually grew into a monumental concept, which I gave the name:

The Unwritten Word – Āyah

A monument in which language is not written onto stone, but becomes visible through the space between stones.

Material as metaphor

Sometimes an artwork begins with a sketch.
Sometimes with a material. And sometimes with a single word.

For me, The Unwritten Word did not begin on a screen, but with a piece of black labradorite on my worktable.
When I applied gold leaf to part of that stone, a thought took hold of me that I could not let go.

For this monument, I deliberately chose black labradorite. A stone that appears closed and massive at first glance, but under the influence of light unexpectedly reveals colour, depth and movement. In doing so, the material reflects precisely what this monument seeks to show: that meaning is often hidden until perspective makes it visible.

What if meaning behaves in the same way?

What if language is not made by words, but becomes visible through what lies between them?

What if void speaks?

Āyah: sign, verse, indication

The Arabic word آيَة (Āyah) literally means sign.

A sign is not a conclusion. It is a reference. A trace. A direction.

In the Quran, the word is used for signs that become visible in creation, in nature and in human existence. Not as something that proves itself, but as something that invites us to look further.
That fascinated me.

Because a sign is essentially a form of language that has not yet been fully spoken.

And it was precisely there that the first connection with my own work emerged.

As a sculptor, I am continually engaged with the relationship between mass and void. It often turns out that it is not only the stone itself that tells the story, but precisely the space that comes into being when stone disappears.

Language, Babel and the hieroglyph

While investigating the word Āyah, more and more connections began to emerge.

On one hand, I found in the Quran the idea of language as an unfolding of an underlying order. Something that reveals itself in signs, forms, nature and creation.

On the other hand, I came across the Biblical story of Babel, in which language instead falls apart into many tongues and meanings — a chaotic scene.
Between these two, I discovered something that spoke to me particularly as an artist: the Egyptian hieroglyph.

The hieroglyph is not a letter as we know it; it is image, language, matter and meaning all at once.
The ancient Egyptians did not merely chisel their stories into stone — the stone became the memory.
That brought me to a thought that ultimately became the core of this project:

The Unwritten Word is not text in stone, but stone that reveals what language has forgotten.

Stone as memory

Throughout the centuries, people have tried to preserve their knowledge — in clay, on parchment, in books, on hard drives.
But nothing endures as long as stone.

When we visit an Egyptian temple today, we still read messages left behind thousands of years ago.
Not because the language remained unchanged, but because the stone remained. Perhaps stone is therefore the oldest memory of humankind.
Not because stone speaks, but because stone preserves.

The design: space as language

It was at that moment that the first sketch emerged.
Not of a building…. Not of a sculpture…. But of an idea.

What if a word is not written onto stone, but is formed by the space between stones?
What if calligraphy does not consist of lines, but of void?

The concept grew into a field of monumental blocks of black labradorite — massive volumes. Some shifted, some tilted, others partially sunken.

Between these blocks a negative space emerges that, from certain positions, becomes legible as the word Āyah.
Not because it is written, but because it is absent.

The pylon

At the centre of the work stands a monumental pylon constructed from stacked blocks of black labradorite.
Running through this pylon is a vertical calligraphic void. A trace that moves through the mass.
It is not intended as decoration, nor as ornament.
But as a presence that becomes visible because the stone withdraws.
The gold is therefore found exclusively on the interior surface of this space — where light touches the void, where meaning becomes visible.

An experience, not an object

Seen from above, a legible form emerges.
From ground level, the same movement unfolds again from one specific vantage point.
Step aside, and the language falls apart, leaving only stone.
As if meaning allows itself to be seen for only a moment.

The monument thereby becomes not an object to look at, but an experience that slowly reveals itself.

A monument that does not yet exist

At the time of writing, The Unwritten Word (Āyah) exists solely as concept / sketch, material study and visualisation.

Whether it will ever be realised, only time will tell.

But sometimes ideas are already valuable before they are built — because they raise new questions, make connections visible, and because they create space.

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The architect’s response

After presenting the concept to the Egyptian architecture firm that had asked me to develop a monument for public space, I received an extensive written response from the lead architect. Below are some selected excerpts that capture the essence of that response.

What moved me most about this response was not the complimentary words themselves, but the recognition of the idea behind the design. The fact that it was precisely the architecture firm in Egypt — for whom this concept had been developed — that saw the connection between language, stone, memory and meaning, felt like a confirmation that the research had found its natural context.

What I perhaps found most remarkable of all was that the response named exactly what I had been exploring throughout the design process: the relationship between Arabic calligraphy, the hieroglyph as a carrier of meaning, and stone as the memory of civilisation.

A relationship that has been visible in Egypt for thousands of years, and that within The Unwritten Word – Āyah has now received a new spatial translation.

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In closing

For me, The Unwritten Word – Āyah is about the relationship between language, meaning and memory.
About the question of how knowledge is passed down through time.

The ancient Egyptians used stone to preserve their stories, symbols and beliefs. Centuries later, we can still read them. Not because the language remained unchanged, but because the stone remained.

That fact formed the starting point for this monument.

The calligraphy is not applied to the stone, but emerges from the space between the stones. The meaning does not lie on the surface, but becomes visible through perspective, light and movement.

In doing so, The Unwritten Word – Āyah connects three worlds that I kept encountering throughout this investigation: Arabic calligraphy, the hieroglyph as a carrier of meaning, and stone as the memory of civilisation.

The monument tells no story about the past. It shows that meaning continues to unfold.

Where the ancient Egyptians carved their language into stone, here a new hieroglyph emerges from the space between stones. Not a written word, but a sign that becomes visible through light, perspective and presence.

The Unwritten Word – Āyah thereby connects one of the world’s oldest civilisations with a new generation of public space. Not by looking back, but by making an age-old relationship between stone, meaning and memory visible once more.

The Unwritten Word is not text in stone.
It is stone that reveals what language has forgotten.