In Turn the Light on, I have installed Starlink internet in an abandoned house. The building, uninhabited for decades, stands as a quiet witness to neglect and the slow erosion of time. Once a site of life, it now exists in suspension, emptied, silent, waiting.

Now, invisible signals beam down from satellites orbiting the earth, moving silently through the space. There is no furniture, no human presence, yet the house is filled. Room by room, something travels, a presence without weight, without sound.

The Wi-Fi network is named “Carlo Acutis,” after the (soon to be) canonised patron saint of the internet, a teenager who saw the divine in the digital. In naming the signal after him, the gesture becomes a digital prayer that flows through code, satellites, and bandwidth.

The act of installing the network is a small gesture, practical, almost domestic.
It is not dramatic, but deliberate: a quiet intervention, like the simple act of turning on a light in the darkness.