Sculpture. Music. Ceremony. The Lotus.
Most landscape is infrastructure pretending not to be infrastructure — pipes and grading in a costume of shrubs. We begin from the opposite premise, and we don't bother with the costume.
A fountain that meditates. An aqueduct that happens to be sculpture. A bioswale built for sitting at, not stepping over.
250 years of acequia. Stone. Wood. And the music we play across the work, because a place that can hold water can hold a song too.
A 28-foot concrete landmark, raised and leveled, surrounded by bioswales. Cast in delicately layered birch formwork, assembled off site to exact spec and poured on location. A cross-disciplinary piece — traditional Eastern geometry, Western mathematics, and Latin intuition arriving at one form by three different roads, none of which apologized for the other two. Built for sound, light, and that particular silence you fall into when you realize the thing in front of you was made on purpose.
Read the project →A working index of Noon's cultural output and collaborations. Most are still in progress — we publish an artifact when it has earned the right to be looked at, and not a day sooner.
A hand-formed brass aqueduct carrying captured rainwater across a residential garden. The patina photographed across six months, because brass, like everyone worth knowing, improves with a little weather.
Field recordings made at functioning bioswales after rain. The acoustic signature of water moving through a properly-graded system — which is to say, the sound of a thing doing exactly what it was built to do. It is a better sound than people expect.
A reading of the 250-year-old San Antonio acequia system as a piece of distributed musical composition. The engineers who dug it would be surprised to hear they wrote a score. They wrote one anyway. Forthcoming in a Source research entry.
Documentary photo series on the dry-stone craft used in Noon's hardscape work. Lessons from Hill Country masons who keep their best instructions in their hands — recorded now, while the hands are still here to read.
Small gatherings at completed properties — soft openings, water blessings, harvest dinners. A finished place deserves to be inaugurated, not just invoiced. Documentation lives with the client by default; a subset is published only with consent.
A tile cycle planned for a private courtyard — the iconography of the Edwards Plateau watershed, rendered as a composition you read with your feet. A map you're meant to walk across rather than fold away.
A residency program in the Hill Country — one artist per season, two weeks, no committee. Sculpture, photography, music, writing. The output stays with the artist; one piece per residency joins the archive, which is a generous trade and we know it.
A guitar built from a single Hill Country mesquite — a tree most ranchers spend good money to kill. The tree, the wood, the instrument, the recordings made with it: tracked together as one cultural object, start to song.
Artists, musicians, writers, sculptors, ceremonialists — the archive is open and the gate isn't locked. Tell us what you make and where you'd like to meet the work.