Absent from conscious control we arrive at divine architecture where art is
explored fluidly without thought. In this sonic surrealism compositions are
designed in state of automatism. Undertones of eroticism and Freudian theories working with the subconscious to create visuals of extraordinary textures and biomorphic soft forms liquefying into a checker shadow illusion.
“Optimal Configuration Daily” is the premise of machine and the mind of man in perfect unison. Experimentation with hardware machinery is explored,researched, and discovered resulting in vivid mental imagery.
If we were to flick the switch that unlocks the power of imagination and allow plenty of room for the unexpected, we tap into unreality and arrive at the line where Dark Division fades certainty into the divinely peculiar.
But we know well that, in essence, dreams and waking hours do not have the same texture and, upon careful examination of all sensory perception, one is able to determine in certainly, that we are awake.
OPTIMAL CONFIGURATION DAILY
Mechanical systems of indefinite function artillery massacre every last spec of floor to ceiling space. Phobic anxiety sets in swallowing whole each breath in respiratory pace. The world is closing in becoming smaller and smaller as blinking colored nobs and completely psychotic wires with no apparent end over run this stone cold precious metal craft. Who or what could be operating this prodigious machine that is emitting sound that seems to be contributing to these most vibrant hallucinations? I look up and to my dismay there is a figure at the console base. Transparent with no skin or bones, just a living beating heart floating in space. Lingering in the stratosphere above it, a glass enclosure housing a human brain that is emitting glitches and sparks of energy circuitry.
An Optimal Configuration of machine with omnipotent organs in man.
An extraordinary scene. In the full proof and texture of my self, I accede to a self-forgetfulness that boarders on ecstasy. And now, here I lay before a collection of my most dreaded life moments. I am reluctant to face this collage voltage in hopes to savor the blissful calm of my watching consciousness. Yet I must, for I have taken my last breath on earth, now here I find myself on judgment day.
In this chambre spirite, a shadowy and dramatic foreshortened perspective of rusty colored space surrounds. In the pit of my stomach and in every fiber of my being runs the retched notion of no escape. In this empty room before my eyes appears a small wooden table. On top of the table, a vintage cassette player with only one press button. With no where to go and no way out, no one to talk to,nothing to do but press play and face my collage voltage in all of these hidden tapes.
And here, the irony: I live between the four walls of this box in order to have the freedom to do what I love.
Monday mornings within the confines of this four wall cubicle space. It could very well be a suspenseful Machiavellian theatre performance- a race bred in the freedom of the almighty divine hands only to be subjected to a game of life long system control, inside a box. I place upon this sorry theatre an escape, the seal of art and its greatest treasures. Monday to Friday is mundane. Rise at the same time every morning, to the same job, wear the same three pair of shoes, eat lunch at the same time every day, and hand over a portion of my earnings to the system every week. All of this so that I can come home and subject myself to another box- my home studio. Except this time I am in a box with my passions.
In this space of white lacquer unemotional and clinical, depth of field lost in eternity. A blank canvas of forever, we are open to write the book. Light workers drawing out our caricatures in black. Once virgin to tarnish and corruption, now we are our own personal artists shading between lines our experience in charcoal black. Only to wake once again in the eternal room of clinical white lacquer.