Some digital artworks transform data, signals and mathematical structures into sound and visual compositions. Ryoji Ikeda’s work offers an important point of comparison: digital flows are arranged with extreme precision in installations where sound, light and measurement often create a monumental experience.

Uderochromatism takes a different direction. Its raw material is not external data gathered by a system, but inner information experienced through the body.

Abdominal tension, contraction, a sense of expansion or a diffuse vibration are not treated as objective values. They become shifting traces of sensory experience. Their translation does not pursue the scientific accuracy of measurement, but the temporary rightness of a form.

The difference therefore lies in where the composition begins. Data-driven art organises information produced or captured by technical systems. Uderochromatism seeks to receive information that is lived, unstable and difficult to quantify.

It does not reject technology. It uses it as a medium of transformation capable of extending the body without erasing the embodied dimension of experience.

The history of music and colour has long been shaped by attempts to connect sound, tonality and chromatic perception. The experiences associated with Scriabin and Messiaen, in particular, reveal singular relationships between listening, vision and musical organisation.

Uderochromatism nevertheless departs from any system in which a colour would remain permanently tied to a note, a chord or a key.

It is not based on a universal chart of correspondences. Colour has no fixed emotional meaning. It does not always convey the same sensation, nor does it necessarily produce the same sonic event.

These associations are temporary. They emerge within a specific moment, through the relationship between a visceral sensation, a gesture and an inner state. The same colour may therefore arise in very different experiences, while the same emotion may call forth a succession of colours.

Uderochromatism does not seek to merge the senses. It creates a relationship between distinct forms of perception. Sound, colour and visceral sensation retain their own qualities while taking part in a shared composition.

This relationship is not an equivalence. It is a circulation.

The role of silence in Uderochromatism echoes some of the questions opened by John Cage’s 4′33″. In that work, silence is not the complete absence of sound. It redirects attention towards what is already present within the listening space.

In Uderochromatism, silence may likewise become an active material. It allows a breath, a movement, a hesitation or an inner manifestation to be perceived rather than covered by a continuous sound composition.

An uderal application or instrument may therefore contain phases in which no predetermined sound is produced. This absence does not prevent musicality from emerging.

The participant may create a rhythm through gesture, movement or the way they interact with the instrument. They may also remain still, allowing silence itself to become a space of perception.

Composition then becomes a sensory and sensorimotor co-creation. It does not arise solely from the artistic object, but from the relationship between the instrument, the body, the surrounding space and the participant’s attention.

Where Cage redirects listening towards the sounds of the environment, Uderochromatism also turns it towards the intensities of inner experience.

Throughout the history of painting, colour has largely belonged to a frame, a surface and a composition. It has been used to organise space, create depth, generate tension and convey symbolic or spiritual meaning.

In Kandinsky’s work, colour is closely tied to the inner life of the artwork and to its spiritual resonance. In the installations of James Turrell and Olafur Eliasson, it may become light, space and immersive experience.

Such practices helped free colour from a purely descriptive role, allowing it to be understood as more than the visible attribute of an object.

Uderochromatism carries this shift further, but places colour in a different relationship with the body. Colour is no longer merely contemplated within a visual field or encountered inside a luminous environment. It becomes the temporary manifestation of an intensity felt in the belly.

It does not necessarily settle into a lasting image. It appears, pulses, changes and disappears.

Uderal colour is therefore not primarily used to fill a surface. It unfolds as an event in time, shaped by the way a sensation emerges and evolves.

This shift also challenges conventional emotional associations. Red does not automatically mean anger, just as blue does not necessarily mean sadness.

In Uderochromatism, colour does not follow emotion in order to illustrate it. It takes part in emotion’s perceptible emergence.

Some musical works give sound an organic quality. The textures, breaths and transformations found in Kaija Saariaho’s vocal and instrumental writing, for instance, can evoke matter in motion — a presence that breathes and continually changes form.

Uderochromatism shares this interest in a kind of music that cannot be reduced to a sequence of clearly separated notes. Music may become density, texture, pulse, friction or suspension.

It nevertheless differs in the central role it gives to visceral emotion. Emotion is not merely expressed through musical texture; it is imagined as an inner presence capable of generating its own musicality.

Emotion thus becomes a kind of musical alter ego.

It does not play an external instrument: it acts from within the belly. Changes in intensity become rhythms, silences, durations and chromatic transformations.

The uderal instrument therefore does more than produce sound. It makes the relationship between sensation, form and temporality perceptible.

Contemporary philosophy has often approached emotion and affect as movements rather than stable objects.

In Deleuze, affect may be understood as a variation in a body’s power: a change in its capacity to act and to be affected. In Guattari, desires and intensities circulate through assemblages that extend beyond the isolated individual. In Didi-Huberman, images may carry survivals, traces and movements returning from the past.

These approaches allow emotion to be understood as a circulating, relational and shifting force, rather than as a clearly bounded inner state.

Uderochromatism shares this attention to instability, but adds a fictional gesture: it temporarily gives emotion a body.

This personification does not claim to define emotion scientifically. It is an artistic device. By imagining emotion as an inner, autonomous and mutable creature, Uderochromatism makes perceptible what would otherwise remain diffuse.

The emotional creature may contract, expand, fragment or gather itself together. It may occupy the entire belly or seem to withdraw into a particular area. Its morphology changes with the intensity of the experience.

Emotion is not fixed by the form it is given. This imagined body remains temporary. It appears only to make relation, observation and translation possible.

Cognitive science, psychology and philosophy have all sought to describe emotion through its physical manifestations, mental constructions and social dimensions. Yet part of emotional experience still resists classification.

Familiar expressions such as “a knot in the stomach”, “fear in the gut” or “feeling sick with worry” reflect an old form of bodily knowledge. They instinctively connect emotion with inner transformation without offering a precise explanation of it.

Uderochromatism takes this uncertainty seriously.

It does not attempt to settle the nature of emotion once and for all. Instead, it creates a space in which emotion’s elusive quality can become a compositional force.

In this sense, it acknowledges that reality cannot always be reduced to a single definition. Rather than answering that difficulty with a closed theoretical system, however, it proposes a practice.

Emotion is approached as something that happens, changes and slips away. Creation is not a matter of capturing it completely, but of accompanying its passage for a time.