The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

smallest object, last day at Eyebeam

this was my last day of my Eyebeam residency; for the occasion, I
made the smallest objects with the 3d-printer, a variety of the
sculptured organism I created earlier. this time, the fundamental
sphere was set at a different angle, resulting in a more problematic
image, one harder to read but easier to slide into one or another
anthrocentric category. it lives as a virus of the uncanny; it
carries signs, inscriptions; it seems untethered. my life is
reflected in it. my last day at Eyebeam was taken up with a very
productive meeting about the identity of the organization. I'd run
out from time to time and check on the machine. when I finally
removed the ground plate, the heated interior was comforting. I
felt at least this thought, these thoughts, were hardened. outside
a cold rain fell. from Eyebeam I took away, the idea of a home, or
a dwelling, an inhabiting, an acceptance, lateral communication
that opened up whole territories; I bought books on sale, listened
as much as I could to everyone, and listened to the building
itself in so many ways - radio and audio spectra, from subaudible
murmurs through VLF atmospheric spikes, power grid noise, up to
around 400 mhz. everything in the building talked to everything;
everything flowed, the residents and staff and fellows flowed.
the smallest object isn't all that small, almost an inch across;
its size was governed by the amount of modeling and support
material left in the machine. I went down to 1% and maybe 3%. I
wanted the forces of the world to gather around the object. I was
unsure about the object. I felt it belong within the imaginary,
would always be imaginary, would carry the tone of a _radical
optimism_ about the structures and formations of the world. now,
in the middle of another sleepless night, I photograph it in
ordinary and ultra-violet light; no secrets are revealed, but the
nub-like, inert and numb, quality of the world is revealed. that
is, to repeat, its structures and formations. perhaps I can sleep
this time, now, perhaps I'll never wake again. temporarily, the
object is a presence. temporarily, I type, repairing errors as I
go along, senseless as I make some sense.

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