The oud is far more than a form chosen by the artist. For centuries, its sound has been woven into memory, emotion, and storytelling across Eastern cultures. With only a handful of strings, it can express what words themselves sometimes cannot.

Here lies the paradox: an emblem of music has been created from objects never intended to make music.

As though the work were saying: what matters is not where the sounds of our lives come from, but how we choose to compose them.

Life does not always arrive as a finished melody. It comes as scattered sounds: events, people, pressures, memories, beginnings and endings. We are the ones who try to give them meaning.

Before these fragments became an oud, there was no melody connecting them. A bicycle wheel once turned along the street. A strainer belonged in a kitchen. A metal serving cover protected food on a table. A hinge opened and closed a door thousands of times. A lock and key guarded a private space. A saw cut through metal. Gears transmitted motion. Springs absorbed pressure. Small wheels carried loads from one place to another.

Each object had its own sound: the turning wheel, the key in the lock, the closing door, the kitchen utensils, the cutting saw, metal striking metal. Together, they formed the noise of everyday life — until they were brought into a single body and became an oud.

This is where the story of the artwork begins.