No court, no rules.

Tennis was invented for grass courts and cucumber sandwiches. This series relocates it to a warehouse where nobody got the memo.

Shot on Kodak Portra 800 inside an industrial space that doubles as the least likely tennis venue in existence, No Court, No Rules replaces white lines with red safety tape strung between two forklifts, and clay with whatever that wet floor is made of. A Wilson racket coated in grease. A Hermès towel draped over a rusted oil drum. A Rolex GMT-Master on a hand with black fingernails that has clearly never held a racket before.

The player serves anyway — all-white kit, mud splattered up both legs, zero irony. The woman in the silk dress sits on the forklift and checks her phone. The designer sunglasses float in an oil puddle and somehow still look expensive.

Shot on Kodak Portra 800, the series treats the rituals of privilege with the kind of deadpan reverence they probably don't deserve. The court doesn't exist. The game goes on.