2022
site specific installation
Audio transducers, media players, amplifiers, effects light bulb
"Your touch makes the waves" group exhibition Cashmere Radio - Silent Green, Berlin

On a ceiling lamp already existing at Silent Green Crematorium a transducer based audio system and a flame type light bulb was installed, playing continuously the sound of whistling wind, metallic hits, and occasionally a voice reading the poem foul light.

foul light

foul light
day reality is a windowed cellar
night reality is a windowless cellar
where we stumble upon things
like dreams, steps, butter in the dark
the cave's breeze on your face in the morning commute full of mold.
air and mold always appear out of nowhere
no spinning compass, even if we tend to confuse it with magic or science.
the veracity of no-things, always begs the ontological question,
but the answer always fools
the one pointing at the moon,
the one looking at the moon,
the one looking at the finger,
not the moon itself,
the blind eye of the night sky
 
the ability to ask questions
and the ability to listen
to what a question
is already an answer to,
are different things.
Like a glow, a shade, or a breath,
 
 
there's something to the left of a shape which is not a door...
Its simply how a shape doesn't simply appear over black or white, intermittent with other shapes. it has flashed, and it will flash again, but not in the same way, never again, unless it is mold, throbbing, expansive, in invisibility.
 
a meter of rope lying on the wooden floor,
The twisted and tangled of many threads
At 50hz we can't see the flicker of the bulbs and screens
Refreshed coagulation
Neither the body brain that flickers
At the flipping of the eyelids
Between this and that
For a lifespan that flickers twice
Once on, once off
 
who are you talking to? what?
 
the paper of the newspaper lost the smell of that forest
and the stuff that goes down the drain is burned for light
the energy cycle is shorter, more effective.
all the electronics in a sea of combustive rhythms
farting all sorts of fumegant codes engraved
by coarse voices, dead with looseness,
slime, and that meal made horrible
by the cooking of foods, wrong sacrifices,
To gods who are hungry for shit
Driving demand incessantly.
But there're no pipes to the asshole of earth
And if there were pipes we'd all look like figures
In a caroussel, melting
Under the thunderous silence
Of the scorching sun.
 
Either burned to ashes or rotting on the earth
Takes too long to turn carbon into glowing things
Tax the rich and get them while they're fat
For nature keeps on giving and taking,
But distribution is the mathematical
Miracle