I walk slowly around the pieces in the room in pitch dark, arms stretched out in front of my face.  I think I am going to spy something in the work off-hours. One week, I tell it, meandering around in the space so dark I can’t tell if what seems to be vision is, in fact, just good memory.  I am looking for its form, any way to see it differently, including in spare hours, not turning the lights on. The decision is that I have decided to oblige the muse and make this a fortune telling, as well.  Reading.  Objects, and meditation, together.  In a week, it can be done.

I think of the pieces in place, the discrete sculptures as light runs, moholy-smokes, and george rickey whose amazing aeronautical design i can’t look directly at, my fabrication, by comparison, more akin to glue and macaroni work, but the movement, and lee bontecou …

I am so not going to say Malevich.  He can’t make me, and anyway I am frozen unable to.

Clarity, like fresh air, nothing like working in the materials.  I used to not want anything else.  Then I started wanting the work to interact with viewer-participant, for it to be an active gift to the Other, that it go into the world as a question, as a direct individual address, the one to the one.  I think of Marina Abromovic’s ‘scuse-me-pardon-me close presence at the entrance to her show. (there was an alternative door, for the cringing)  Or of her sitting at a table looking into the eyes with the Other, the individual, in silence, for as long as they wanted.  For, what did she do, a month?  She is the precedent to fortune telling, machine just pounces me, dingdingdingding hot hot on fire, it’s right there.  but machine, be for real.  i put my face in my hands, i know it.  i know it.  i’ll just add it to my formidable collection of other things i know.

Each piece has one glass eye and no time to become unliving with second thoughts.   No sketches, they are all works, every move is the piece, not an idea of the piece, get right up on time, right up on the work, make it in the present, and leave it for the future.  Leave it for the other.  How else could I push myself at the force of time, what other way might I have made it, each piece another bouncing teetering rocking iteration of the original conundrum.

Rooms are populated by things, in most cases.  Even though I dream of converting space into otherplace entirely, the inside of a familiar but unknown  – mechanism – fruit – creature – turning the whole space into something made not just of materials but of light and shadow, bent, refranged, refracted, challenging the eye to measure the room, to identify it, to locate it, to find the self swallowed and spelunking.  But.  But!  This time, I am called to the individual piece, the object d’art.

I unleash the mind’s eye on the wall and it makes a huge, difficult bronze mesh thing.  No, I tell it, simpler… smaller, less pain in the asser.

Each work investigates another aspect of seeing, using optical illusion, reflection, optical and semantic, the fortunes – the seeing, the enigma of the seen, light and shadow.  Ways of seeing. Reading is seeing, hearing is seeing,  the visitor is seeing, to be the time or setting of (which is always the now,) and the all seeing I, to see: to find qualities in, to forsee, to predict, to comprehend, to meet, to consult, to escort, (do we do anything that we don’t call seeing?), to attend to, to provide for, to ensure, and, to equal the bet of.  To see.  Seeing

Seeing, as the primary experience, supersedes objectivity.  Seeing and otherwise primarily sensing, are the foundation of knowing.  How we see determines who we think we are and what the world is, how we see programs our power, our action in the world, our sense of self.  But all that is afterthought… what is muse giving me to do.. .

the i, the word, that begins with i | the immanence of imminence

It doesn’t begin with i, .  nothing begins.