SZ031 — Shape Song

1828 Words

Shape Song
[ Original format: 2018, Edition of 25, 1-color screen-printed book, Cast plastic with screen print transfer, sourced envelopes, 6 x 8.5 inches, Publisher / Exhibition History: Sonnenzimmer / Hatch Show Print, Nashville, TN ] Graphics and music derive from the same source. Whether it’s paper, a screen, or even projected light, all graphics are bound to a surface. Music, though often associated with invisible waves flying through the air, is bound to surfaces as well. After all, sound originates from the vibrations of surfaces—think of a large gong or vo- cal cords. These vibrating surfaces disturb the air pressure around them, forming sound waves. These waves are only “heard” when inter- cepted by tiny hairs—receptors—in the eardrums of humans and animals, which send signals to the brain to form discernible “sounds.” Music can be described as the organization of sounds. So, does it follow that music is also the organization of surfaces? surfaces? surfaces? surfaces? When a moving object travels faster than the sound waves it produces, it breaks the sound barrier, resulting in an aural event called a sonic boom. The sound waves produced omnidirectionally by the speeding object that can’t keep up, squishing together into a single large wave at the front of the object. This “shock wave” produces an extremely loud cracking sound. surfaces? surfaces? surfaces? surfaces? Surfaces? If graphics and sound both derive from surfaces, is there potential for a physical or conceptual corollary to the sonic boom in our perception of graphics? Is there a graphic shock wave? A graphic boom? Graphics travel by waves too—light waves that reflect off surfaces and eventually catch our eyes. When light is slowed through refraction in controlled environments, nuclear technology can accelerate particles beyond this slowed light speed, creating a glowing blue light known as Cherenkov radiation. The mechanics of this phenomenon are similar in nature to a sonic boom’s. Yet it’s not the speeding light waves that carry a graphic’s meaning. It’s more the cognitive process of decrypting its lines, shapes, and colors through our visual lexicon. So, what hap- pens when the mean- ing that a graphic car- ries changes faster than the fixed image it’s bound to, or when graphics change too quickly for us to keep up? Don’t our contemporary digital networks and graphic user interfaces already allow graphics to do such things? If a single image can be in two places at once, its fixed meaning must travel faster than the surfaces it inhabits. If you visit your grandmother in Ohio and your cousin in Istanbul on the same day, you are most likely moving at a faster speed than they are. Logical puzzles aside, this graphic phenomenon is nothing new. Since the proliferation of print and the mechanization of the human graphic impulse, we are in a constant state of multiplicity, like wearing a bib of mirrors. In fact, it’s not unheard-of for the same graphic to carry two different meanings mere millimeters apart. The Nuremberg Chronicle (Germany, 1493), one of the earliest surviving printed books merging movable type and images, is famous for using 53 woodcut cityscapes interchangeably to represent 101 different important places in the Holy Roman Empire. It used several portraits interchangeably as well. [ 1 ] Though print technology was new, the author, publishers, artists, and printers responsible for these decisions must have intuited that the meaning of an image is interchangeable depending on context. Their execution demonstrated that the ideas of Paris and Venice could be represented by the same woodcut without confusing the viewer. In this case, the semiotic of the graphic literally shifted from Venice to Paris in just a few pages. Was the visual explosion that followed the birth of print around the fifteenth century a sustained anomaly akin to the sonic boom? Perhaps, like sound, graphics only “exist” once they are processed or perceived. If two trees fall in the woods, landing on top of one another perpen- dicularly, do they make a picture? Only when observed can these fallen trees suggest to the viewer an x. Sonic booms are continuous, yet they appear as singular events. So, what could a conceptual graphic boom look or feel like? Is it equally continuous, only spiking when perceived? Is this broken graphic barrier we’re hypothesizing merely the sustained cognitive dissonance we experience when we sense a discrepancy between reality and our graphic landscape —between our experience and its representation— [ Branch depiction, each branch represents one book of the edition that has a sculptural branch ] knowing Paris and Venice can’t possibly be the same? Per haps graph- ics create microrealities once perceived. Maybe in this microre- ality, for a sonic sec- ond, Paris and Venice are the same, and thus the graphic barrier is broken. In the publication Café Avatar, we argue that human graph- ics are camouflage used to transmit knowl- edge. The cosmic tension felt when Paris and Venice are coded using the same camouflage, the same woodcut, eventually meets a threshold in our pro- cessor. If our graphic landscapes generate multitudes of realities deriving from our contemporary tendency to exist in both a corporeal realm and the extended graphic skin provided by our interfaces and digital networks, when does the threshold break? It could be said that the written word transformed human interaction from an orally to a visually oriented society. Spoken words conjure shared concepts for the speaker and listener. The transition to written language was a shift towards passive storage, made possible by a graphic interface-—words. This storage was an evolutionary merger of humans’ innate graphic and verbal impulses. Following the birth of print, this passive storage for knowledge increased significantly. Printing enabled the rapid multiplication of access points to this stored knowledge. Thus, knowledge, a fixed entity, literally traveled faster than ever before. Where sound waves have crests and troughs, perhaps a conceptual “graphic wave” might look like this: Meaning Meaning Meaning Symbol Symbol Meaning 1.0 Meaning 1.0 Meaning 2.0 Symbol Symbol MeaniMeaniMeaning 2.0 SymSymbol Unlike sound, meaning/knowledge can change faster than material properties, and as the graphic symbol speeds forward, inhabiting several meanings, something funny happens: this conceptual wave collapses, creating a cognitive anomaly felt by anyone observing the access point. Multiplicity was not the only addition the mechanical age brought to the graphic landscape. The aesthetics that the printing process and its related material imposed dictated how our information looked and felt. The matrices of print—carved and etched surfaces covered with ink and pressed upon paper—shaped how we conceived of the world as well as our collective knowledge. Artists learned to exploit the surface of wood, copper, and other materials. Our visual culture was forged by the limitations of the properties of these surfaces, the dexterity of the artist’s hand, and the machines that aided them. If the mechanization of the human graphic impulse allowed us to store and access knowledge from far greater points, simultaneously connecting our stored knowledge to a form-language determined as much by machines and material as by human hands, what has the digitization of the human graphic impulse brought? If written language shifted storage of knowledge from the human brain to the graphic interface of words, and printing gave that knowledge exponentially more access points through exactly reproducible images and text, the digitization of our graphic impulse has shifted the storage of knowledge from graphic carriers to bits, electrical charges, which can not only create graphics autonomously but learn and adapt. With each further abstraction or iteration of knowledge, do we risk corrupting meaning? Are we not living through an intense and sustained graphic shockwave? “Cymatics,” [ 2 ] a term coined by Swiss scientist Hans Jenny, describes the study of the visual patterns that appear on the surfaces of substances when they are vibrated by sound waves. These symmetrical visual displays have been studied since the 1600s. Simply put, the invisible vibrations we experience as sound waves manifest in materials. Sound organizes these materials based on the properties of the material vibrating and the vibrations emanating from the agitated surface that creates the sound. The way the images appear during the cymatic experience of surfaces vibrating seems to point towards an inherent cosmic geometry within the sound wave itself, yet looks are deceiving. The patterns created by vibrations derive from active and inactive areas of the resonating material surfaces and how the incoming vibrations affect them. For example, Ernst Chladni’s famous figures resulted from sand accumulating in nonvibrating portions of the resonating plate, called nodes. So, the images appearing in his cymatic experiments are less a visualization of a sound than of the interaction between two materials: the surface creating the vibration, and the surface vibrating. If sound is created by surfaces, perhaps cymatics are an example of nature’s graphic impulse: an autonomous graphic language describing these two surfaces interacting. And if nature is talking, we should probably listen. In Café Avatar, we posit the connection between manmade graphics and those found in nature on the skins, fur, or feathers of animals, or in the coloration of plants. “Graphics are animal. Graphics are vegetable,” we state in the publication’s introduction. We argue that the natural world has utilized graphics far longer than we humans. This train of thought led us to theorize that graphics are not just innate in living things but that an autonomous graphic impulse can be found in matter. If graphics create micro realities, perhaps this replication/duplication/reflection is the metaphorical essence of matter itself. If an electron can be in two states at once and only chooses a state once “observed,” perhaps this choice is the graphic impulse. Sure, it’s a stretch to connect our tendencies to condense human knowledge into an observable, tangible form to that of a cat who is simultaneously alive and dead. But what about a dog? Imagine a simple line drawing of a dog. Now bark at the imagined drawing. Does your imagined drawing bark back? Which is more like a dog: your bark or the imagined drawing? Now draw a dog, and imagine the sound of a bark. Which is more like a dog? In both cases, we would say that the physical manifestation is closer, your bark and your drawing, meaning you are a closer replica of a dog than your imagination can ever be. [ Photograph of Sonnenzimmer’s Kitchen ] Shape Song was authored, designed, printed, and published by Sonnenzimmer, Nick Butcher & Nadine Nakanishi on the occasion of the exhibition Shape Song at Hatch Show Print’s Haley Gallery, Nashville, TN, 2018. This text follows the ongoing inquiries of Sonnenzimmer’s Graphic Arts Future. [ 1 ] Schedel, Hartmann, et al. Nuremberg Chronicle. Anton Koberger, 1493. [ 2 ] Hans Jenny, Cymatics: A Study of Wave Phenomena and Vibration (Basel: Basilius Presse, 1974).

SZ021 — Graphic Arts Future: Corporeal Knowledge

2416 Words

Graphic Arts Future: Corporeal Knowledge
[ Original format: 2017, 3-color screen-printed and vacuum-formed cover, multi-color Risograph, and laser printed interior, 8.5 x 11 inches, Publisher / Exhibition History: Sonnenzimmer / Facebook ] Idea as spoken language What are graphics? Everyone’s got screens now, and these screens are basically just graphics. Graphics are everywhere. Everyone’s in two, three, four, or more graphic interfaces all day long. We have a graphic tendency as human beings. In nature, there are graphics, too. Plants and animals have graphics. They camouflage themselves with their skin, feathers, or external materials. Their graphics mimic the outside world. How are our graphics, even though they are not attached to our bodies, related to this? What’s the bigger function? We think about graphics as external and “away” from us, but we are born with an urge to make graphics, to deal with them. Even if you just read a printed or handwritten page, this is a graphic interface outside your body that we use to communicate with each other. What is that stuff? Where is it going? How do graphics shape the world? Soon, so many people will be immersed in a virtual reality. We will be immersed in a total graphic interface. Someone is going to make that interface. It’s not a small thing that we are willing to give up our external world for a predesigned one. Why are we so anxious to design such a system? Why do we have this tendency to create and immerse ourselves in a fully graphically rendered world? Graphics allow human beings to think together, beyond our own skins. They are camouflaged knowledge. A warning sign is camouflaged knowledge. Knowledge from “in here” that we agree on and have to give shape “out there.” It’s bigger than just signs and labels and typefaces. In November 2016, scientists announced that they had discovered a new organ, the mesentery. It’s something like a stomach lining. It was depicted by Leonardo da Vinci in 1508 but ignored for hundreds of years. It went undetected because it seems many in this field assumed everything in the body was categorized correctly. It turns out you can still discover things that are right inside you. We misunderstood it for centuries. The same thing goes for graphics; maybe they’re not what we’ve previously thought. They are liquid; they are a membrane; they come with us as humans. We’ve always accepted the idea, in human evolution, that the use of tools is the thing that differentiates us from the animal world. But what if it’s our externalized graphics that set us apart. What if our tools were first rendered as graphics? When you see the image of Homo sapiens’ evolution from an ape, what if it wasn’t a spear he was dragging, but an avatar? Idea as poetry graphic impulse is animal graphics are a skin when we enter a new skin do we become a new animal Idea as prose What are graphics for? The impulse for graphic expression is not unique to humans. Animals and plants use graphics, too. They do so using their exteriors. Many species use their skin, feathers, scales, or fur to camouflage themselves from predators and prey or to attract prey. Their graphics help them blend in, distract, signal, or appear as something they are not. While we may not consider this “expression,” the result is the same—the arrangement of color and form for a clear goal. Our graphics function much the same way. They are also a sort of skin. We use exterior substrates as membranes to distribute information, converging color and form to communicate ideas. Our graphics are a sort of camouflaged knowledge, transferring information to onlookers through an agreed-upon set of symbols such as written language or images, applied to a surface. Language is generally viewed as inherently separate from images. Yet written language and images are both part of the same “graphic tendency.” The impulse for creating and distributing both is the same: self-expression and social exchange. Written words are merely the graphic distillation of oral language: symbols for sounds that carry meanings or abstracted pictograms (in nonphonetic languages). Our graphic images also carry meaning, or sometimes just feelings. Combined, these graphics are our social skin. They are an external membrane giving shape to our collective consciousness. They bind us. They are the exterior of our exteriors. They allow us to think together out here. Our world is growing more graphic. Digital print technology is making it easier than ever to cover every surface imaginable with graphics (car wraps, hydro printing, direct-to-garment printing, etc). This tendency is growing in tandem with an increase in personalization. Digital print technologies allow for consumer-friendly platforms for creating and uploading images that are ready for application to myriad surfaces. Simultaneously, people are spending an increasing amount of time engaged in graphical user interfaces on devices like computers and smartphones. Screens are purely graphic. They are our modern social skin, and this graphic skin is growing increasingly interconnected, fluid, and interactive. Our graphics are becoming liquid. They react when you touch them. We’ve grown accustomed to it. For digital natives, this is part of their social fabric. For the rest of us, it’s a compelling and endlessly entertaining, and rewarding plane to exist in. Though not yet commonplace, virtual reality will soon immerse us in a fabricated graphic world. The graphic skin will soon envelop us. However, the architects will not be some supernatural force, but our fellow humans, or perhaps in the distant future, artificial intelligence. Does our historical collective graphic tendency foreshadow the future? Print scholar William Ivins Jr. made the case in his influential 1953 text Prints and Visual Communication that an “exactly reproducible image,” his term for the printed image, was more ­influential in spreading ideas and shaping the modern human than the printed word. He argues that without detailed descriptive images, science and technology would have been limited in their spread. This championing of graphic pictorial statements is rare but feels right when considering our contemporary fascination with graphics. Weren’t printed graphics (image and text alike) a sort of proto-internet, collected knowledge distilled to a plane and disseminated en masse? Isn’t the internet just a “physical” model for the collective nature of humanity? If the internet is a physical model, and it’s inherently connected to a graphic interface, once we step into the graphic interface and our collectivity submits to this new state, will humanity emerge as something new? If graphics are a skin, a collective social fabric, what happens if we immerse ourselves in this new one? Idea as a shape The human with new skin My physical body is less important, though my physical needs remain. My earthly looks are replaced by my own creativity and digital craftsmanship (though both are limited to a programmer’s creativity). When I choose how my avatar looks (and perhaps feels), I’m not sure if my personality truly wins out in my choice of mate or friends, or if I will simply choose those who also choose what I like. Will my taste siphon me into a distilled tribe of agreement? Will society as a whole splinter into various virtual “worlds” we choose to cohabit? Hawaii-land, Biker-ville? My job is relegated to computer terminals. Can I work for Facebook in Hawaii-ville if I’m at home in Dyersburg? And what about the manpower behind this technology? Who will service my virtual world in the physical one? Will a worker fix bugs for my virtual world in their virtual world? As we splinter as a society, as I tighten the screws of my likes, turning them into a “livable” world, will I emerge in a new tribe of like-minded avatars with our own codes and symbols, or will I shrivel away as solo shell in a mainframe on the fast track to a very foreign space? Either way, we’re starting over again. The human with born skin. [ As of Jan. 2017, this is fiction. ] My apartment’s utilities are constantly being cut, due to my landlord not installing the self-regulated heating readers that are linked to the central weather-forecast agency in my region. I have to do a workaround to get service again: Call the hotline, await a pin via phone, and reinstall my account. I have to do this fifty-minute procedure twice a week if I want electricity. I might end up looking for a new apartment because of this. I have wanted to switch jobs for a while, but it’s been a challenge due to the digital footprint of my former (politically incorrect) avatar. I can’t shake it from my records. It follows me wherever I go on the web, like an old-school ad from 2016. There is a state service that helps rectify this: the last bit of civil service that hasn’t been privatized, ironically. But it’s like filing a DBA for an S Corp, and it costs $500 a pop for one request. Anyhow, with my conflicting avatars, I can’t upload any new information to my resume page. They blocked me. At the moment, I work as an in-house ID-card printer for my local sectional neighborhood access program. I have to change the plastic pellets every half-hour so cards can be printed at any time. The architects who thought this was a good idea have limited everyone’s mobility, and people are starting to organize to protest these restrictions. It’s interesting that after a communication monopoly, a transportation monopoly is kicking in. I don’t know how long I will be at this job, as the management is trying to replace manual labor such as my position with intelligent software and substrates, which means self-regulating frameworks that can inform each other on “commands.” Dollars, quarters, and pennies were phased out four years ago. It started with the coins. Everyone was scared of viral infections being transmitted by untreated copper. They also couldn’t figure out the nano printing for the bills, which was supposed to help because the paper would self-degrade. The central bank had hoped to cut out the collection and distribution of physical currency to react faster to the Bitcoin rates. And, on top of that, my social Fridays have largely been diminished, as I don’t have access to a lot of the places where my friends meet up due to my self-segregation, not only because of my media choices but also my employment and my general profile as a person. My sleeping pattern has been greatly impacted by the environments I work in. I am surrounded by so many screens that I have to get weekly doses of Melatonin-Coppice, which are unfortunately not covered by my insurance, but I remember my grandfather, who was a veteran and suffered from PTSD, being unable to get acupuncture, so that’s the way it goes. Either way, we’re starting over again. Idea as unanswered questions Are graphics balloons? If so, what do we inflate them with? What happens when they pop? If graphics are a skin, what’s on the other side? You can move your body, and thus perception, through space. This is a physical act. You can move your perception through space without moving your body, too. This is a cognitive act. What happens when you change your cognitive and physical perception at the same time? Does the “thinking” happen inside us or outside? Images are “captured.” Graphics are “constructed.” What happens when you “capture” a graphic, or “construct” an image? If location doesn’t matter, then perspective doesn’t matter. What does that mean for the picture plane in a virtual reality? If perspective doesn’t matter, yet a figure-ground relationship is reliant on a first-person perspective, then in this new room, ideas of the viewer, the fourth wall, the nude, and still lifes (all compositional tropes) become inconsequential to the picture plane, except if there is movement. If movement is center to the experience of the picture plane but one is confined to a locale, then multiple planes are necessary to circumscribe the pictorial content. This bears the question, is this era of pictorial image related to the experiments of the Cubists? Phonocentrism is the belief that sounds and speech are inherently superior to written language. Logocentrism upholds the principle that all forms of thought are based on an external point of reference. Speech is considered to have more autonomy than writing, as it’s closer to the source. Graphocentrism unveils our tendency to value writing over speech, thus sight over sound. These binary battles of sound versus writing, or perhaps equally pathos versus logos, or even image versus word, are of old descent. These binary conflicts are inherent to graphics. A surface must be inscribed, a matrix must be established, an impression must be impressed. To understand that a helix is not only moving forward but also in some way collapsing in itself at the same time, we must understand that truth is binary by nature as well. Imagine, once again, the famous illustration of Homo sapiens’ evolution. From ape to man, the defining ­moment is the spear in hand. What if the human never had a spear, but came with an avatar of one instead? So, the inherent matrix of the spear was embedded in the avatar and could be rendered as an object from there: a graphic as camouflaged knowledge, an external graphic as the defining moment of human evolution. What if our graphic interventions in the physical world are a collective organ, a skin, inseparable from humanity? If we understand this new graphic-centered view as a sort of “volte-graphic-centrism,” how will we use these newfound privileges? When our graphic realities (our social fabric) are totally fabricated, will we subordinate our physical environment even more, as we embody this new worldview from the inside out? Who do we leave behind? Who and what do we exploit in the process? If the graphic impulse is animal, and graphics are a skin, what happens when we enter a new one? Do we become a new animal? Graphic Arts Future: Corporeal Knowledge was authored, designed, printed, and published by Sonnenzimmer, Nick Butcher & Nadine Nakanishi during a two-month residency at Facebook’s Menlo Park, CA headquarters. This text follows the ongoing inquiries of Sonnenzimmer’s Graphic Arts Future. ISBN 978-0-692-85107-4.

SZ030 — Glimpse and Glance on the Ice Rink

2007 Words
A Glimpse and a Glance on the Ice Rink. [ Original format: 2017, 2-color screen-printed text, 4 offset-printed plates, 4.25 x 11 inches, Exhibition History: grayDUCK gallery, Austin, TX, Contributors: Anthony B. Creeden, Jessi DiTillio & Julia V. Hendrickson ] This interview was conducted between Anthony B. Creeden and Sonnenzimmer (Nick Butcher & Nadine Nakanishi) via email in November and December of 2017. The conversation was initiated in preparation for their simultaneous exhibitions. Nadine: For us, if art questions gesture, and design questions format, print is the skin in between those two—challenging materials as well as pictorial expectation in the rendering. Similarly, you accomplished this new material technique of egg tempera on muslin for your latest body of work. The paintings are very physically flat, yet visually dimensional. I assume this content—authorship of the gesture that you are questioning through the flattening of surface qualities—was a very personal moment. How do you feel about that flattening? Anthony: I like the idea that print is a “skin” between gesture and format. As an image-maker I’ve had to question painting’s uniqueness among modern forms of image-making quite a few times. If painting were also a “skin” between such things, what would its mark be? To me, that mark—its fingerprint, you might say—would be its surface. The indexical trace that a brush leaves behind leads one to imagine a ghostlike presence of an artist’s hand within the work. This isn’t always the case (obviously not all artists paint their own work), but it does distinguish painting from the indexical nature of something like a photograph. In a similar sense, print, textile, and film have their own fingerprints: I’ve begun to notice things like the mottled surface of old lithograph prints, the diffusion of color within dyed textiles, and the relationship between light and projected films. Inherent in their production is a distinct “tell,” or mark left behind, that becomes a pictorial expectation of sorts. The absorbency of muslin combined with the translucency of egg tempera has allowed my paintings to be built up with dozens of layers of paint and yet remain physically flush to its own surface like print, like textile, and like film. At least that’s how I look at it personally. It’s able to remain distinct as a “painting” in many ways, and yet oddly absorbs familiar traits of other image-making forms. This idea is why a bunch of my work tends to reference science fiction or ghosts. One piece, in particular, is John Carpenter’s The Thing from 1982. In that version of the film we, as the viewer, only experience the alien as an imitation or emulation of someone it has physically contacted earlier. It’s a pretty good metaphor (maybe a mascot) for what I feel like doing in the studio these days. In an earlier publication Nadine wrote: “For me, type was pure image. A drawing by a four-year-old, a typeface by a master, a painting by Rubens—they were all pure image.” [ 1 ] This tendency to recognize and welcome the structural similarities among things that are generally described in superficially different terms seems vital to the images you both make. Ideas around interchangeable skins or digital avatars seem to reference a potential slippage between vision and language, pictures and words. Do you feel a renewed sense of formalism is at play? One that continually sheds its skin, maybe? Nick: For me, it goes beyond formalism. I hesitate to say it goes “deeper” because I’m not sure it does. It’s more superficial. I think our main conceptual concern has been to reconcile all of our visual work (printmaking, painting, graphic design, performance, etc). In doing so, we’ve hit some awesomely murky territory. In our most recent publications that have aimed at supporting our more intuitive visual work, we’ve been chewing on the idea of the “graphic impulse”—the basic human tendency to decorate or articulate with images on substrates. I think for both of us, this notion puts the written word, drawings, websites, and billboards in the same category. They’re all reflective of the graphic impulse and their form often carries deeper significance than what they superficially advertise or aim to do. The mastery of the graphic impulse and its reception has reconfigured society. For us, human graphic output seems to be an almost living organism. We’ve called it a skin, but it maybe it’s more than that. Now that human graphics are combining with artificial intelligence and our graphic interfaces are backed by insane amounts of processing power and are typically outfitted with a camera, our “graphics” are starting to look back at us, which is a bit strange. With the work in Café Avatar, we wanted to toy around with the notion of the avatar, a virtual graphic stand-in for a person. The work is playful, colorful, a little silly, but the connotations aren’t, necessarily. We wanted to imagine a space where our avatars hang out when not in use, as a jumping off point to explore a vacuum where figurative work and abstraction can cohabitate “naturally.” Café Avatar is a liminal space where bored almost-humans await their calling. Sure, they can shape-shift, but does that matter in the RGB void? Reading Rothman and Verstegen’s essay that you shared, [ 2 ] I was struck by their diligent and respectful rebuttal of the anti-Arnheim sentiment in contemporary (well, 1990s) art criticism. I wasn’t aware of such distrust of his ideas, but I get it. The semiotics they discuss so blatantly privilege language. That notion really musters up the bad taste that I have from a certain strain of intellectualism around art-making. Language and images are different. Framing art through the structure of linguistics misses the point entirely. While I know a lot of these discussions are valuable, I can’t help but think that this approach has cut off the art discourse from a would-be audience and influenced a generation of actual artmaking to address the concerns of language, rather than of visuals. I’m all for intellectual debate and investigation, but I think it can be done in terms of visual thinking. How has the contemporary art discourse shaped the work you make? Do you ever struggle with formal intuition because of a nagging voice in the back of your head? Anthony: Absolutely. I assume we all struggle with that voice in our head. To be honest, one should have to check that voice from time to time. An intriguing part of contemporary discourse today, at least to me, would be where artists find a need to hedge their bets between irony and sincerity in their work. Visual language, especially in the digital-image world, has started to point toward and question what the anonymity of an online culture made up of billions of people might mean to their ideas. Concepts tend to feel undercover, elusive, and the images feel coated with an ambiguity about its intention. Nowadays it’s really hard to tell if my friend’s talent for creating and posting memes on Instagram is potentially an art practice they’re trying out…or not, like in some “post-studio” way. If not, maybe they should; what they’re posting usually has a subversive ring to it, which kind of works. In terms of an economy within the language of art, you can’t beat a meme or an emoji: they’re too elegant. It’s bonkers to imagine where a painting will fit into that world sometimes, but kind of irresponsible to not do so. And my painting studio isn’t in a vacuum, I’m always online looking at or listening to one thing or another. A contemporary practice around egg tempera painting is pretty anachronistic; it’s a bit unforgiving as a method and fragile to work with—temperamental—but more sharply, it’s holistic. I feel attuned to the studio because of its constant need for me to be mixing and measuring things daily and knowing that the paint will spoil if not used quickly. That’s usually why my work is not packed with images sourced from online but instead tends to reference and insist on the artist’s hand, the mark, and the studio as being present. I’d be interested to know your own thoughts on formal practices these days. I keep thinking about this phrase that Jim Elkins wrote: “The opposite of a glance ... is a glimpse: because in a glance, we see only for a second, and in a glimpse, the object shows itself only for a second.” [ 3 ] He also argues that even if it takes three hours, he would stand in front of a painting until he caught that glimpse. A viewer like Elkins is extremely rare, and making work for viewers today—the majority of which will be online—might need to exist somewhere between a glance and a glimpse. Do you both find formal intuition has sped up? Is there a need to make work that asks people to slow down and to be stared back at? Nadine: I feel like a viewer like Jim is not rare when you survey a wider cultural setting. Especially where pictorial statements are anchored in other cultural frameworks. I experience that most people are in touch with the notion of that space between glance and glimpse. Our senses rely on the navigation of the impulse surfacing from the image or object (glimpse) and the impulse itself (glance). This phenomenon is not beholden to experts formulating language or having time. But, I do feel that as we have more planes to navigate images, for example augmented and virtual and online identities, the signifier of work is split into more realms. The “mark of the genius” is now split into more than one “surface.” So, by that logic, viewing is also “polyspectoral” (yes, I made up that word), like perhaps how a fly sees? Images are now more ephemeral, removed from their physical carrier. They are now more in line with oral traditions or mythology. So maybe it’s not so much that formal intuition has sped up, it’s more that the pictorial demand has to answer to an oral tradition instead of a written one. Nick: There definitely seems to be a return to formalism within capital “A” art. Of course, it never left many other artistic fields. I guess our world has grown more graphic through the increase of devices and screens, so it makes sense that people are moving towards this way of communication. We’re increasingly “speaking” in the terms of the medium at hand. So yes, I think more art is being made to work in the realm of strictly visual interactions, which is the same thing as formalism or “communication design,” I guess. Regarding the “glance” or “glimpse,” I’m a glance person. If something can’t give over information quickly, I lose interest. To me, images are fast-talking oracles. Not that they shouldn’t be revisited or you can’t spend time with them and get more from them, I guess I just generally believe that images give their essence at light speed, because they are working within the realm of light. A Glimpse and a Glance on the Ice Rink. was produced on the occasion of simultaneous exhibitions Sonnezimmer’s Café Avatar and Anthony B. Creeden’s Cacti and Semaphore, grayDUCK Gallery, Austin, TX, 2018. The original publication was designed, printed, and published by Sonnenzimmer, Nick Butcher & Nadine Nakanishi. The publication features an interview between Nick Butcher, Anthony B. Creedan, and Nadine Nakanishi. The original publication features essays by Jessi DiTillio and Julia V. Hendrickson. [ 1 ] Nadine Nakanishi in Nick Butcher and Nadine Nakanishi, “Dawn Brings the Dew,” Graphic Arts Future (Chicago: Sonnenzimmer, 2015), 2. [ 2 ] Roger Rothman and Ian Verstegen, “Arnheim’s Lesson: Cubism, Collage, and Gestalt Psychology,” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 65, Issue 3 (June 2007). [ 3 ] James Elkins, The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing (New York: Simon & Schuster: 1996), 207.

SZ029 — Café Avatar

2853 words Café Avatar [ Original format: 2017, Edition of 250, 3-color screen-printed cover with thermochromic ink, Risograph interior 8 x 10 inches, Client / Publisher / Exhibition History: Sonnenzimmer & Perfectly Acceptable Press / Sonnenzimmer / University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, Chattanooga, TN; grayDUCK gallery, Austin, TX ] Graphics are animal. Graphics are vegetable. Before humans learned to exploit the capabilities of our graphic expression, graphics long served the natural world. Plants and nonhuman animals used graphics for millions of years before we got the hang of it. They do so with the camouflage found on their exterior skin, fur, feathers, and scales. Whether using their markings to hide from predators and prey, or to attract mates, the result is the same. Their bodies generate complex graphic patterns and colors to transmit to the outside world. Graphics transmit. Human graphics function much like a skin of an animal or plant, though they are generally removed from our person. Our graphics—stretched across flat substrates like book pages, screens, and billboards—form a web of expression that transmits collective human knowledge. But instead of blending into their surroundings, they act as a sort of “reverse camouflage,” with content revealed rather than obscured through their shape and color. This graphic membrane binds humanity. This skin envelops us and acts like a network transmitting our collective consciousness. Graphics are the exterior to our exteriors. They allow us to think together as a society “out here.” “Out here” is relative. It’s hard to pin down exactly, but we are predisposed to understand its value. As sentient beings, we are aware of ourselves and how we appear “out here.” As we come of age, we instinctively learn that others perceive us. The flow between our internal selves and our external image is coaxial: two separate data sets with a single endpoint. But being “in here” and “out there” at the same time creates a cognitive tension. Perhaps our graphic compulsion, the instinct to express ourselves and communicate through mark making is an attempt to close this gap. When referring to graphics, we include a full range of visual expressions: drawing, painting, computer graphics, logos, symbols. Graphics are any intentional visual manifestation of purposeful action. While we include written language in the graphic universe we’re exploring, plenty of space has already been devoted to the role of the written word in the evolution of humanity. However, our efforts here are not to upend the hierarchy of word vs. image but to equalize the two with their own categorically succinct existence. The written word’s mechanical origin, the graphic impulse, has been historically neglected. Our academies and universities still rely on upholding the superiority of word over image. Yet, print scholar William Ivins Jr. argued in his important book Prints and Visual Communication that the printed picture, not the printed word, brought humanity into the modern era. The perfectly repeatable pictorial statement, as he called it, made possible by innovations in printing (first with woodcuts then engravings, photographs, and now digital images) have done more to spread knowledge of mechanical innovation, science, and the study of nature than their text-based descriptors. Ivins argues that the continued advancement of the technology of images allowed for the spread of information that is more precise than wordy descriptions, which are easily misunderstood and mistranslated. A picture is worth a thousand words, yes, and perhaps a thousand impressions of a single picture is worth exponentially more. Images and words are connected through their graphic carrier, but on a visceral level, they function quite differently. Because we process words so quickly, it’s easy to forget that they are merely a string of subordinate symbols that, when combined, form a dominant symbol connected to a fluid lexicon. For the literate, at a certain point in our development, words stop appearing as a group of shapes and become a singular entity. We see the whole word at once and quickly retrieve its meaning. In essence, written and printed words are graphics first. Yet the presumption of the superiority of words over images has shaped much of modern thought, worldviews, and ways of being. This misunderstanding has left us unprepared for the extremely graphic future. This superiority of the word can be traced to the Age of Reason when rational thought came to be considered the ultimate vehicle for humanity to reach its righteous intellectual homeland. In 1766, the German writer and philosopher Gotthold Ephraim Lessing wrote an influential essay titled Laocoön: On the Limits of Painting and Poetry, which decisively articulated the neoclassical division between painting and poetry and introduced inter-arts criticism during a time in which many were distancing themselves from classical Renaissance ideas. Some might argue that this essay marked the beginning of a modern point of view, one that aims to uphold the rational over the irrational. The existence of graphics is rational (they are useful to communicate, way find, etc.), but their physical form, creation, and prowess are not. Perhaps images are irrational by nature. In his text, Lessing wonders whether master artistic production should serve beauty or the search for truth. Comparing the marble sculpture of Laocoön and His Sons (42–20 BCE; disputed by Lynn Catterson) to Virgil’s poem The Aeneid, Lessing makes the case that, contrary to the ancient belief that ut pictura poesis (as painting so is poetry), the fulfillment of the artistic medium is to recognize its essential limitation. While the “fine arts” can convey an immediate impression upon the recipient, their spatial nature differs from poetry’s sequential and thus temporal nature. Lessing, the way we take it, put poetry above painting. Poetry does not have to be concerned with beauty, Lessing suggests, as it can convey meaning through partitioning reality without disrupting the readers’ senses. Something of beauty, on the other hand, has to strike you all at once, in situ. Frank Egbert Bryant, an American scholar, equalizes words and images somewhat in his book On the Limits of Descriptive Writing apropos of Lessing’s Laocoön: If descriptions of objects are not equal to paintings in intensity and universality of impression, neither are narratives in the same respects equal to the drama when represented on stage nor are descriptions of music equal to the actual performances. In each case, the reason for the weakness lies deeper than the fact that words follow each other in time order. It is found in the element of symbolism in the instrument of expression. Description, because it uses symbolism, generally does no more than to convey the essential truth of the object portrayed. It arouses in the mind of the reader, not the sensuous image that the writer saw, but another image like the former only in that it has the same essential characteristics. I think we have now determined the principal differences between description and painting. The advantage of the latter is found in its power of denotation. A few lines give more exact sensuous information than a page of description. A few bold strokes will give to all observers the same line, but they are not likely to suggest for anyone a finished picture or more of a picturesque detail than they really present. The reverse is true of description. The power of the latter lies in connotation. Since every word calls up associations, a few well-chosen descriptive epithets and phrases may suggest a picture that seems as complete and life-like as reality. [ 1 ] So, written (and spoken) words conjure images. But what is it that images conjure? It’s quite difficult to articulate, and perhaps that’s the point. Poetry and painting aside, in the long view, perhaps the graphical evolution of the written word was that they were merely a temporary collective meeting ground for communication. Remember, we were an oral society first. Was the hierarchical advantage of the written word over images merely a short blip in the evolution of humanity. Perhaps our rational search for “truth” was the butterfly-effect beginning of the binary language necessary for computation (“truth“ implies “falsity”). Perhaps written words were destined to be binary commands (and that destiny certainly seems to be unfolding in front of us). If there is some semblance of truth in these meandering thoughts, then it makes sense that our graphic-based realities are unfolding anew. Graphics are returning to their irrational, even spiritual, origin. Are we returning to some unsettled understanding, are we entering a truly graphics-centric ecology? Our graphic social skin has always moved in tandem with our technology. The industrial revolution helped usher in mechanical norms and the beginnings of a structural monoculture beyond just machinery. It spread products, kickstarting the global marketplace and graphic norms. The digital revolution put the structures of monoculture and its graphics in our pockets and changed the nature of our graphic skin forever. Graphics are now handheld, fluid, moving, receptive, and they have unprecedented reach. They wiggle when we touch them and those reverberations can be felt across the globe. With an impending virtual reality and augmented reality, our graphics will soon be inhabitable. This begs the question: If the graphic impulse is animal, and graphics are a skin, if we enter a new skin, do we become a new animal? Are we there already? The human-animal is most certainly midstep in a journey to the unknown. Take the current discussions of racial and gender identity. They are clashing with our outdated government documents and social norms. Perhaps it is because our physical bodies are not the singular point of reference when it comes to identity. A Nielsen Company audience report of July 2016 [ 2 ] revealed that adults in the United States devoted about 10 hours and 39 minutes each day to consuming media. Our identities are increasingly attached to our digital profiles, freeing our conscious selves from physical form. “We“ are no longer bound by a physicality. And consider that over 50 million Americans, that is more than 15 percent of the population, live with autoimmune disease, according to the American Autoimmune Related Diseases Association. [ 3 ] Many people’s bodies are rejecting the physical world we’ve created. At the same time, we’re more closely aligned with machines than ever before. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates that 8.7 million Americans use assistive devices. Add handheld devices, self-driving cars, virtual-reality headsets, surgical self-regulating medical implants, and the outsourcing of cognition through artificial intelligence, and it’s clear that our personal physicality is no longer defining humanity. Take “fake news.” Misinformation is nothing new. Our graphic expression has been defined by manipulation for centuries with warring religious decrees, modern advertising, etc. But now, are we not increasingly choosing which reality we’d like to inhabit, rather than existing in a single social fabric? To recap, our identities are decreasingly defined by our personal physicality, while our physical bodies are simultaneously rejecting the tangible world. We are more closely aligned with machines than ever before, and we seemingly pick and choose which version of reality to inhabit. Perhaps our bewilderment in this changing landscape of ethics, morals, etiquettes, and mannerisms could be shaken if we started to understand that our habitual being cannot be isolated from a graphic nature—that we move in a graphic world and that graphics move in tandem with our humanity and are more than just ads, pages, screens, websites, and logos on soda cans. They are a part of our physical nature, one step removed from our person, yet irremovable from us. Maybe it wasn’t the spear that separated modern humans from our primitive past but graphic expression and its ongoing refinement. Perhaps we are born with an avatar. This is a substantial question for us to tackle together. If we don’t ask ourselves how our humanity and our graphic expression are interconnected, we will hand both over to trolls, programmers, corporate disclaimers, and, lastly, to automated platforms, thus ultimately serving the computational forces at hand. Perhaps wars can only happen when everyone wears a uniform, or fights under one flag (see vexillology). Our graphic social skin is at a fragile crossroads. Through our personal devices we’re increasingly living in a graphics-centered world, yet we are further removed from the production of said graphics and the frameworks they exist in. This discrepancy is no small thing. Shifting graphic paradigms are nothing new. While technology continues to shape our graphic social skin, other factors have been at play from their inception. Cultures have always influenced one another through interactions of trade or proximity. We borrow graphic convention from one another, unknowingly introducing elements of the worldview that bore them. For example, the historical influence of Japanese woodblock print on the birth of modern European painting. The highly condensed space and flatness of form of Japanese popular culture prints gave European painters access to a picture plane freed from the constraints of “realism.” [ 4 ] Yet when new graphic conventions are imposed rather than imported, whole ways of thinking can be lost. Take mapmaking for example. Cartography is a fundamental graphic statement. It is the reduction of the physical world to a discernible graphic counterpart for wayfinding. When the Europeans forcefully introduced their methods of map-making, based on mathematics, to the native people of the Americas and beyond, they began a process that eroded the natives’ social graphic fabric, and thus a collective understanding. These encounters eroded a way of seeing and thus a way of being. For a long time, scholars have disregarded the pre-encounter mapping from these nations. The hubris to think these forms of mapping weren’t a sophisticated amalgam of thought and form amounts to self-deception. In Cartographic Encounters: Perspectives on Native American Mapmaking and Map Use (University of Chicago Press, 1998), editor G. Malcom Lewis’s research makes it clear that the First Nations had highly developed forms of mapping. Using oral and ephemeral maps that combined topography with cosmography, they notated spatial territories along with the temporal. Time was communicated in the forms of how long it took to achieve a task. Maps were intertwined in cultural settings through deictics (this refers to words and phrases such as “me” or “here” that cannot be fully understood without additional contextual information). In these maps, two thought worlds were often combined through, not only graticules but also dance or memory. When the newly arrived explorers and imperial cartographers translated the native maps into their conventional terms of scientific mapmaking to assimilate this information for their usage, they stripped them of their proper significance. We make the argument that not understanding their graphical expression coincided with a cultural fate that would be held against the tribes not only for negotiating land deeds and defining geographical borders—this ultimate innate insensitivity would construe an impasse, a cultural gap which laid the groundwork for genocide, one that we still have to address as a nation. So, when we, not just scholars, look at a one-way translation, we should remember these moments of encounter. We must also look at this in the context of the changing graphic landscape of today. If we give over our forms of graphic expression to the self-­driving impending monoculture, what do we stand to lose? Graphic expression is animal in nature. Our graphics are irremovable from our person. They hold with them a worldview. They bind us. They condense our collective human knowledge. Without graphic expression, that knowledge is lost. With graphic expression in flux, knowledge is in flux. As our world becomes more graphic, our finite knowledge is spread thin. Graphics, once a carrier of knowledge, are now outweighing the lived reality. So this begs the question, where do our avatars hang out when they are not in use? Will their digital footprints inadvertently trample us? Welcome to Café Avatar, where your work/life balance is currently on hold. Welcome to Café Avatar where you interview yourself. Welcome to Café Avatar where your dark thoughts are a patterned wallpaper. Welcome to Café Avatar where mocha is a color and shape. Welcome to Café Avatar, where singularity is a double-edged sword. Welcome to Café Avatar, where memory of natural sound is forever a glitch. Welcome to Café Avatar, where no favor is quantifiable. Café Avatar was authored and designed by Sonnenzimmer, Nick Butcher & Nadine Nakanishi on the occasion of the exhibition Café Avatar at Cress Gallery, University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, Chattanooga, TN, 2017. This text follows the ongoing inquiries of Sonnenzimmer’s Graphic Arts Future. The book was co-published by Sonnenzimmer and Perfectly Acceptable Press. [ 1 ] Frank Egbert Bryan, On the Limits of Descriptive Writing apropos of Lessing’s Laocoon (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Library, 1906), 35. [ 2 ] “Television is still top brass, but viewing differences vary with age,” Nielsen, accessed January 10, 2020, [ 3 ] “Our Mission,” American Autoimmune Related Diseases Association, accessed January 10, 2020, [ 4 ] Colta Feller Ives, The Great Wave: The Influence of Japanese Woodcuts on French Prints (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1974).

SZ016 — Graphic Arts Future

2416 words G A F raphic rts uture [ Original format: 2015, Edition of 100, offset-printed box, screen-printed book, laser printed stickers, 12” LP, 12 x 12 inches. Publisher / Exhibition History / Contributors: Sonnenzimmer / Texas State University, San Marcos, TX / Nick Butcher, Edie Fake, Julia V. Hendrickson, Todd Irwin, Daniel Mellis, Anders Nilsen, Nadine Nakanishi, Katherine Young, Alexander Valentine, Lauren Weinberg, Keefe Jackson, Jordan Martins, Jason Roebke, Mark Greenberg, Brian Labycz ] Let us reclaim the planes to skate deviations in the reins. Then break from the parenthesis to share the surf of the surge. 1. Dawn Brings the Dew Nadine: A person once told me that puns are the last thing to set in, in language development. Finally, someone was able to diagnose my deficit in moving between languages. I grew up bilingual, speaking English and Swiss-German. The benefit: You always have two pairs of cultural “slippers” ready at the time of entry. The flipside: You can never wear both simultaneously. Often, one pair gets worn out; other times, I mismatch them. It means I am never good at any one language, or perhaps I am always teetering back and forth between the two. This may explain why I gravitated toward typography at an early age. To me, the Roman alphabet—common to both English and Swiss-German—was like a carrier of freight in transit. What was inside? What was its destination? Typography always appeared as pure form to me: a language of lines, tied to a cultural context. It’s as though you’re into hip-hop and you listen to French hip-hop, even though you don’t understand French. While you know that it’s hip-hop you’re listening to, you don’t have access to the full scope of the music because of the language gap. You experience it as pure sound. For me, type was pure image. A drawing by a four-year-old, a typeface by a master, a painting by Rubens—they were all pure image. In time, I unlock the meaning of the image—which moves into the background; the abstraction of form emerges. I often experience a visual tinnitus because my visual field is constantly moving back and forth, missing an equilibrium. Though, as the world around me moves with visual velocity, my state is almost in tempo with it. Yet, within this navigational vortex is a source of refuge, where time sits still. The eye of the storm. I view the graphic arts as the handwriting of humanity. When they are inscribed through wide means, they serve as a time capsule. Like droplets of accumulation, the graphic arts are the condensation of human time. Nick: It’s increasingly apparent to me that our visual world has only three components: natural phenomena, human-made structures, and the graphic arts. I know this sounds oversimplified, even painfully ignorant, but bear with me. Natural phenomena include us humans, animals, plants, insects, earth, and the elements. Human-­made structures account for obvious things like buildings and cars, but also the microscopic chemical structures we have created, like plastics. That leaves us with the graphic arts. What are they, anyway? Visual noise, the condensation of human time? The graphic arts have had a shifting and slippery meaning throughout history. The term was first used to describe two-dimensional pictorial arts like painting, drawing, and lettering. (Note that these are all immediate and manual modes of communication or notation—graph, the Greek root, means “to write or draw.”) During the Industrial Revolution, the graphic arts came to describe skills related to mechanical reproduction. Was the writing and drawing for the mechanical age? —typesetting, layout design, printing, photography, etc. The graphic arts have evolved with us, inhabiting our latest modes of visual communication. The two can’t be separated. But what happens to the modes left behind? The established narrative of Western art history argues that “fine art” influences “graphic art,” that one begat the other and is more culturally sophisticated. I have some beef with that. When mass communication challenged the established roles of painting and drawing, were they just left to their own devices? It’s not so farfetched to see a correlation between the shift in our concept of the graphic arts and the rise of abstraction. Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque used fragments from newspapers and other graphic ephemera as a formal means to an abstract end in their first Cubist collages. This development is seen as a fundamental leap toward the “non-objective” in Western art. Yet if the forefathers of Cubism hadn’t used staples of the graphic arts—printed fabric and paper—their artistic trajectory would have veered elsewhere. These works were innovative, but they didn’t happen in a vacuum. The Cubists’ innovations in pictorial arts owe a lot to the graphic arts of the day. The development of mass communication changed our access to media, and thus our relationship to form. Over the past 25 years, we have witnessed perpetual change within visual communication. The graphic arts must be changing again too, right? Graphical user interfaces dominate our multiple personal screens. Images are liquified and interactive. The means of graphic expression are now located at our fingertips. We have even eliminated the need for physical space for their implementation, by using virtual space. With our out-of-work friends painting and drawing left to roam, I wonder what will become of the mediums and methods associated with the graphic arts of the modern age. Has the vocabulary of mass communication become a nitrous oxide of nostalgia? Freed from their jobs, can these graphic arts—those related to printed matter and motion graphics alike—crack open a parallel dimension, like Cubism once did? Dawn may reveal the dew, but if you stay awake, you’ll see that the drops start forming well before then. We give you Graphic Arts Future. [ Three part illustration plate by Sonnenzimmer ] Graphic Arts Future was authored, designed, and published by Sonnenzimmer on the occasion of the exhibition The Past is a Stranger, The Future is a Guest at Texas State University, University Galleries [1] & [2}, San Marcos, TX, 2015. The original publication featured contributions from artists Edie Fake, Todd Irwin, Anders Nilsen, Daniel Mellis, Alexander Valentine, and Katherine Young.

SZ015 — The Impossibility of Language of Construction

986 words
The Impossibility of Language of Construction [ Original format: 2015, Edition of 50, 1-color screen-printed cover, 2-color letterpress interior, 2-color dye sublimation book cloth, 5 x 7 inches, Exhibition History / Printers: Center for Book and Paper Arts, Columbia College Chicago, Chicago, IL / April Sheridan, Heather Buechler, Amy Leners ] C Impossibility o n s t r L u a c n t g i u o a n g e Act 4 Act 1 It’s March, near a low-lying plateau. The light is short, pink and yellow. Though the colors are isolated, perhaps lonely, the atmosphere refracts light into thousands of small figures, each revealing a full spectrum. This nicely counters the Weltschmerz that hangs in the air. We (Sound and English) approach from the distance. Sound: I haven’t felt this in years, this kind of humidity, from the snow, —| =— ————) I guess? English: Have you ||||| —————————— ever been this far north? Sound: No, never. — _ ) English: You know, you____________————— ————))))))))) have to take into account the wailing of the gravel underneath. Sound: Why’s that? English: —————— —————— _ To have a keen understanding of the surface. I’m not saying you should care about the surface, I’m saying that if you take into account the gravel underneath, you might have not only felt the humidity, but the non—material. Sound: You sound + + + + + + + + + ___________ tired English: I am ))))(((( tired. Sound: Cool. Anyhow, I’m feeling a bit.. ——— ——————————— ||||||||||||||\\\\\\\\\\\\\ don’t know... like there was a premonition. You know, like when you go into a room and you have the idea of water, yet you know it’s sand and you have to walk through it, like a ladle. English: Quite abstract, : : : : : : : : : : : : : : ____________ but I think I know — what — you — mean. Sound and English walk through the flickering plane. Everything is further than it seems. The sound is familiar and leading. Like something from an overhead air grate, making distant music with its misinforming and metallic overtones. Act 2 It’s perennial, approaching like a season. The neighboring colors never mesh; they clog. A sum of experience with no paradoxes. Clogged not blocked. Like grain. Material, not meshing or adhering. ————————————————————— A. A white square, a backdrop. B. Three quick swaths of marine blue. C. Cover the blue with black. D. Make three x’s in grey. E. Use white for highlights in the black. F. Make five vertical stripes in purple. ————————————————————— Act 3 deep, deep… deep, deep, deep... deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… They walk a while. The glaring and frozen water is like a wall of solid brightness. The hue is pure and exact, an extract of turquoise. deep, deep… deep, deep, deep... deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… English: Did you hear that? That pecking sound. Sound: I can’t hear anything. They continue towards the shoulder and again the surface makes the sound. deep, deep… deep, deep, deep... deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… deep, deep… deep, deep, deep... Sound: We can’t take forever. Thaw will surface and then there is no point. deep, deep… deep, deep, deep... deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… deep, deep… deep, deep, deep... deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… deep, deep… deep, deep, deep… deep deep deep forms a picture. Act 5 Sound and English continue walking, They exchange roles and drab conversation, one describing generally, one more specifically. And then they melt, quickly reemerging as Framework and Dilemma. Framework: ...arnish like a more eccentric language, one with certainty, this is requested.