serial_experiments\gave

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  Scriptorium Cristian Andersson installation Information streams tickle branches of the trees along the river. A stronger wind approaches from afar. Its gusts will tear leaves from their branches, tear open the shawls of vines covering the sleeping faces of benign forest creatures. The basin will be flooded with information whirling and spitting, it will overflow and the Interforest floor will be littered in torn flesh jutting ligaments bearing the marks of terminal stress. Those poor creatures of the interforest, conceived in the innocence of youth, will taste the nectar of data and will catch fire behind their eyes.  They will bite at each other's heels, so as to satisfy the flow of data through them, the flow of data housed in blood, who nurtures at the cost of data input, blood spilled, rendered from carcasses and recycled, replenished into data more fit for the future, and data as it piles on more and more, will meet other data, and explode in fury. Passion is born of data. F

Ryoji Ikeda Ryoji Ikeda JUL 19 - AUG 26, 2018 Garage Museum of Contemporary Art, Moscow, RU code-vers e   Sounds whir constantly through the networks of leaves in the Interforest. Even when silent, unheard, they pass in streams of signals. When, walking through the Interforest, a sound meets your ear, it is but one strand of a halo of spinning stars, whose brightness and deepness together is too much for the human ear to take, so the ear leans away from the higher and lower frequencies, the most holy and profane circles of the halo, so as not to perish by the power of infinity.  When I put my own lips to the mouthpiece of my staff, constructed from the throats of those who couldn't keep their contracts, and I blow air, and it produces sounds, the same familiar screams, could I really call those sounds new and original? After all, my own breath comes from the halo of perpetual motion, propelled by the energy of a sun plummeting constantly toward death, and the frequencies it excites

Like candles on the ocean, lifted by waves hidden in the sky’s vast shadow, the stars loom overhead. Far above the sleeping village, far above the sleepless young shepherd who gazes upward, stretched out upon hilltop, hoping to catch in the eye a stray droplet of starlight. The metal poles that dot the hills produce their whirring that sweeps across the cool air of nighttime, meeting the ears of the young shepherd who assumes that the whirs are the songs of the stars. In a daze of youthful imagination, the whirring transforms into a chorus of celestial voices. The damp grass grows colder between the youth’s fingers, whose fidgeting comes to a halt inspired by a piercing clarity in the head. Infinity hangs above the earth. Dotted with holes. A light shines through. Who suspends infinity? Who shines the light? It is only one. The one who sees, and knows they are the Creator.  GEM 2023 05 01 01 33 16 Knowing this, and being content to know all, the young shepherd drifts to sleep, carried