The painting reveals itself in fragments. A flash of white seen through a window. Two figures glimpsed through a gap in a wall. Only when the viewer enters the ruin does the full composition reveal itself.

Voyager consists of two figures and a radial starburst painted on a concrete wall, after the diagram engraved on NASA's Voyager Golden Record. In 1977, humanity's self-portrait was sent into interstellar space aboard a gold-plated disc designed to outlast civilisation.

On a wall, everything inverts. The material is fragile; rain, sun, demolition could erase it tomorrow. The audience is no longer a hypothetical intelligence across cosmic time but whoever walks past. The scale collapses from interstellar to local. The Voyager record was a curated, diplomatic portrait of humanity. Here, the same image becomes graffiti: unauthorised, temporary, vulnerable. No longer humanity addressing the cosmos, but one person addressing their street.

The gesture remains the same: a raised hand, a mark left behind, the need to say ‘we are here’; whether anyone receives it or not.

And if one day, long after us, another intelligence finds this message, it will not be drifting through space but here on Earth, half-buried in the ruins.