Clay Commune

No larger than a grain of dust, the architects remain unseen. Only their work reveals them: hundreds of tiny clay spheres, fused in cryptic arrangements, tucked between tree branches inside Robert Morris’ Observatorium in Lelystad.
It began quietly—one ball, then two. Within days, a tight-knit village emerged, as if some mysterious creature had chosen this sheltered sanctuary. The clay, sometimes perfectly rounded, sometimes bearing what appear to be human fingerprints, seems to come alive in the morning light.
Entomologists whisper theories. Some suspect a southern vagrant, a microscopic mason-wasp. But this is no solitary work. These are communal structures, built in synchrony—each module placed with an intent we cannot decipher.
Larvae have been found, but the adult form has not yet appeared—no wings, no legs, no sound—just more balls, every morning, a silent annexe to Morris’ vision.
A migrant species, collective and unseen, choosing art over aggression.