Cultural production is defined as that artwork which is activist in character and has a social function to unambiguously inform its audience about the nature of official culture, so they can adopt a complex understanding and new priorities about policies which may infringe on the public’s welfare. In describing it further, one can say that cultural production avoids the expression of human suffering, as well as the appropriation of minority and Third World cultures. Also, rather than seeking to raise money, cultural production seeks degrees of libration through community activism. 

6/3/97

When I first made a proposal for the Skulptur exhibition in 1977, I was searching for a project which would recognize one of the contradictions of public sculpture. Perhaps it could be basically described as follows: On the one hand, public sculpture offers the general public a supposed opportunity for an aesthetic experience unrestricted by the walls of an exhibition container. On the other hand, public outdoor sculpture represents an object from its own discourse which occupies public space, having been autonomously produced and often driven by the assumptions it is a public necessity or a sign of cultural progress and spatial stability. Furthermore, if public sculpture is meant to find its status as permanent, doesn’t that run at cross purposes with a temporary exhibition?

In responding to the recognition of this problem, plus the practice of other artists in the project section of the exhibition (Carl Andre, Joseph Beuys, Richard Serra), I began to formulate a proposal for the 1977 Skulptur exhibition.

The proposal included a small trailer which was part of a line of trailers being mass produced by the Eriba Company. The model was 4.56 meters in length. It begin a compact recreational vehicle, it began to sign for a split between alienated labor and alienated leisure, and allowed the trailer to refer back to a similar myth of supposed liberation that I saw embodied in the contradiction of public sculpture. The trailer also responded to the idea that a public sculpture, up to that point in time, constituted an object which was anchored to one place and carried either a monumental mass or ideological weight, or both.

Much different than most outdoor sculpture of its time, the trailer was chosen due to its sign as a low cultural object of common experience. Although it could not fulfill the traditional criteria of the readymade (even though its context had been transformed for the museum viewer), it became one of my first attempts to suggest that due to the readymade withering away of appropriation’s original strategic importance, it might actually be more radical to revisit the common object within the frame of its intended use.

I formulated the artwork in Münster so that the trailer would be parked in nineteen different locations (the number of weeks of the exhibition). The locations began in the city, turned outward to the north, west, east, and south. The last four weeks, it returned to locations in the city. In so doing, the trailer articulated the structure as it unfolded: from [in] the city, next to the University, to a parking lot adjacent to a mall, then in a parking place in front of a car dealer; and once it left the city, the trailer was parked in a wealthy residential area, next to parks, then next to an industrial complex, then next to a canal, to a high-rise apartment building, a school at the end of a dead-end street, in an urban shopping mall’s parking lot, [by] a church, a store, a torn-down building opposite a number of residences, in an empty lot, then back to the city and in a large open parking lot, in a parking lot in front of the train station and, second to last, in front of a bar.

Each location represented a different situation where a trailer might be found. The method of placement was intended to create the impression that the trailer was an integral part of its surroundings rather than an entity in itself, which was so common to public sculpture up to this point. Although some sites were less likely than others, each location was different enough to serve as a model of where a viewer might conceivably notice a trailer.

Each Monday, when the museum was closed, the trailer was moved to its next location.

The curtains in the trailer were closed and the door was locked to emphasize the trailer’s external relationship to each site.

Much like other equipment needed solely for the Skulptur exhibition, the trailer was rented for a fee and returned to the rental agency after the exhibition.

In an attempt to suspend the use of chronological ordering and taste as standards for the placement of sculpture throughout a museum, and to avoid the problem of outdoor public sculpture becoming a separate satellite of the museum, I linked the structure of the trailer project with information sheets which could be picked up at the front desk of the museum and used to guide the viewer to each new location. Due to there being nineteen separate locations, there were nineteen different information sheets printed, each with the same description of the project but [with] a different location at the bottom of the page. Only one week of information sheets was put out at a time, which enabled the exhibition weeks to coincide with the location for that week.

By correlating the weeks of the location of the trailer with the exhibition, I was able to demonstrate how the structure of my work was physically opposite the exhibition, insofar as it contained many different sites for one work, which was never anchored to the ground for the duration of the exhibition.

Through the use of the information sheet, the trailer project always depended upon the subject of the exhibition rather than the usual category of public outdoor sculpture. Therefore, the trailer had to be defined by its placement and context rather than by its object status.

By picking up the information sheet and traveling to several or all locations, it was my hope that the different walks or drives would sharpen the viewer’s relation to this artwork’s spatial and temporal conditions. In 1977, I believed that the trips the viewers made to the trailer project also suggested that the viewers were integrally linked in the co-production of meaning rather than its consumption.

By framing the trailer object within the exhibition theme, it was declared a sculptural object of high art. Through this transformation into sculpture, the work maintained the function and sign of a trailer, enabling it to refer to its different settings throughout the landscape as it would normally do in everyday reality, but simultaneously being a project within the Skulptur exhibition for those visitors who had circulated through the museum.

Finally, I chose to have photos taken of each of the nineteen locations, not only for the purposes of documentation, but [also] to be able to demonstrate a public sculpture which could never have an ideal view and could not contain, [in] one photo of a location, more or less significance than the next reproduction. 

The photos became a record of this work’s limit in time and its impermanence. 

The way in which my Münster project recognized the initial contradiction [that] I saw as inhabiting public outdoor sculpture up to 1977 was by not mapping onto its surroundings the presence of cultural and economic achievement, nor did it allow for the presence of an object with arbitrary meaning from an aesthetic context; neither was the work an autonomously produced object within a collective space; and finally, it did not function as a cultural endorsement to enhance real estate values, thereby avoiding the impositions of cultural presence upon spaces granted to the community at large.

When I first realized the trailer installation in 1977, there was no indication that the Skulptur exhibition would ever be repeated.

Therefore, the first time this project was presented, it was not designed to be, necessarily, realized again, for it would first have to have a specific purpose.

Therefore, when [I was] invited again, it became increasingly clear that if I came to apprehend that the conditions which shape public sculpture’s reception had not substantially shifted by 1987, and again in 1997, and if I understood the city, the museum and the exhibition to have only changed in form but not in function, the logic I applied to my practice would have to govern my decision as to how I approach my contribution to the following exhibitions. In each case, I only had one choice, and that was to reconstruct the same project I originally realized in 1977 and allow it to become a measure of its own value, as well as supposedly changing times, in 1987 and 1997.

So, central to my decision to reconstruct the Münster project was my discovery that there could be numerous changes in art production, as well as in the landscape over the years, but these constitute changes which remain within the domain of formal experience and don’t necessarily affect the fundamental function of surrounding conditions.

Strangely enough, the discovery which enables function to be prioritized over form as the fundamental purpose to reconstruct this installation was similar to the way my original project prioritized its discursive function over other practices, which were more contingent upon formal shifts for their meaning.

Given my commitment to a site-specific practice and my consistent mapping of function throughout my observations and the logic I employed, it appeared that there could be only one conclusion, particularly where difference could be demonstrated, and this was to redo the work from 1977.

In rethinking the Münster project in 1987, I was quite surprised to realize that the site-specific approach I was employing seemed to determine [that] I do the same work over again, whereas in other situations it meant never repeating a project.

So on one hand, by utilizing a site-specific practice, there was no guarantee to keep from replicating an earlier work of art, and, on the other, there was no guarantee that this approach could cancel out its shortcomings in the use of more arbitrary practices.

If the need for the replication of works of art were found to be necessary, such as in my Münster project, it demonstrates the degree [to which] a site-specific practice is contrary to the modernist paradigm, which valued uniqueness in the work of art as a measure of progress.

The degree [to which] this artwork is tied to the physical site and its conditions is probably best represented by the fact that one day it will be impossible for this project to be realized since there might be no more trailers of the type necessary or no more land which in prior times were [parking] locations.

As has already been mentioned, there is no singular ideal view for photographing this installation, but if the viewer is searching for change, they will notice in the reproduction of photos between 1977, 1987, and 1997, that, oddly enough, changes can’t be seen in the artwork’s structures with its mobil unit (the trailer) — except for several times in 1987 when the trailer was misplaced or not photographed from the correct angle, or in 1997 when fewer places have to be used — but in the objects such as in trees and buildings [that surround the trailer].

The proposal for my present contribution reads as follows:

My proposal for Skulptur 1997 involves the reconstruction of the same project realized for this exhibition in 1977 and 1987. Although the most recent installation will include the same temporal structure — as well as the original caravan model, parking positions, and procedure used to inform the public of the caravan’s location — it will differ due to the present exhibition’s duration of only fourteen weeks rather than the nineteen weeks in 1977 and the seventeen weeks in 1987. Also, alteration of the landscape in the past twenty years has made access impossible during week numbers three and fourteen. During these two weeks, the caravan will be in storage. Also, as in 1977 and 1987, the weekly repositioning of the caravan and its photographic documentation will be handled by members of the museum staff.

In terms of meaning, the 1987 and 1997 installations of the project seemed to address the imposition of public sculpture; but at the same time, it [the project] gathered a question about history and how we consign records of the past to arbitrary or relative observations if we want to seek future discoveries.

On one level, this refers to the rigor of reconstruction of the 1977 project, and, on the other, this project operates as a measure or comparative analysis of the different Skulptur exhibitions.

6/28

Being against the idea of permanency in public space, and understanding that such a space is not mine to make a public experience, I chose the element to be constantly mobile and never fixed. It wasn’t manufactured for the city to accumulate motifs.

Perhaps history, or the history I am interested in, has arbitrariness, and thereby co-option, or avoids a history which can be revised for personal or commercial interests.

So, my basic question to UC would be, why do they feel they must stress skills or technique classes for their professional arts degree when every indication would suggest that a BFA or MFA degree ought to be dfined as liberal arts requirements added onto what is expected for a BA or MA? I know how crazy this must seem to UC, but I think to grasp a theoretical and critical analysis of contemporary culture, and the mechanisms which drive its complexities, are becoming, if they do not already comprise, the fundamental tools behind most art production. UC has the potential to be in the foreground of professional arts education if they allowed for a portion of the skills stressed to be translated into serious studies in the humanities. I believe this change would secure UC a thoughtful student, prepared to adapt to different ideas, as well as having the tools or methods to apply these ideas.

As an extension of the previous idea, I could also suggest to those campuses which are proposing interdisciplinary degrees that students ought to complete this degree with studies within an art school program and the humanities. An example of this might be an interdisciplinary arrangement with a student taking dance and linguistics, or a student taking sculpture and social anthropology. Perhaps these opportunities already exist.

2. It has been my distinct impression, as an instructor during the past sixteen years and as a professional artist for the past twenty-two years, that the possibility of graduates of an MFA program in the studio arts have decreased opportunities in their field to gain an income, such as in becoming a postsecondary art instructor, or through a gallery and museum exhibition, or having a chance for funding from grants.

This past year, at California Institute of the Arts, there were over one hundred applicants for each visiting artist position, and all the artists on each short list were highly qualified to teach at our institution. Seven years ago, we had approximately fifty applicants for a similar opening. This competitive field does not allow much room for young artists to become part of our faculty.

The long waiting lists in New York for artists simply wanting a commercial gallery exhibition, and with the only real guarantee for those artists to stay with the gallery is to sell the complete exhibition, leaves little specter of hope for those artists who choose to explore rather than meet market requests. Galleries in other cities, such as Los Angeles, are beginning to take on similar characteristics as those in New York.

Samuel Lipman points out, in his reflections upon the role of the NEA [National Endowment for the Arts] during the 1980s (The New Criterion, September 1988), that the greatest amount of endowment funding has been given to glamorous, big budget projects (such as blockbuster exhibitions, which will have a large attendance) rather than funding which is in the service of supporting quality or serious activity within artistic production. This also having been the case within most regional funding agencies, younger artists can no longer count on this type of support to bridge the gap between graduation and a mature practice unless these institutions modify their current policies.

With the narrowing of opportunities which ought to have supported young artists holding a professional degree in the studio arts, how will the projected professional degree programs avoid becoming both an addition to the already existing desperation of new graduates who have found it impossible to gain employment or funding in the field they have become members of, as well as adding to the mounting resentment of graduates having to delay exploration in their chosen field until they can support themselves? Within the context of these two prior questions, what are the expectations of a graduate holding an MFA degree in the studio arts before they are to have an income from their professional practice?

The Whitney Program and CalArts have experienced relative successes in the education of young people to become professionals. Both institutions are similar in that they have been working to make a commitment in hiring faculties in the studio arts whose critical and theoretical involvement in practice constitutes the largest part of their careers as professionals outside of the institution. Each one of the institutes’ programs in defined by the faculty’s reading of culture, rather than being guided by equipment of specific skills. Also common to these two schools are the independent study programs from foundation to sixth-year students. At CalArts, students are urged to meet individually with two faculty members. These meetings are in addition to seminar meetings. The individual meetings begin with an independent study contract outlining the terrain which the student wishes to concentrate on with the instructor for one semester. Both CalArts and the Whitney Program have very active visitors’ programs comprising artists and critics. These people also do workshops and studio criticism with individual students. At the Whitney Program, many visitors are also seminar leaders. Last year, CalArts had approximately two visitors per week. Along with the tremendous importance placed upon independent study as a learning tool within a milieu of faculty working closely together, it would be a sheer oversight to underestimate the amount of motivation and achievement which is generated by all students having studios on campus, allowing them to work and hare their ideas about their studies twenty-four hours per day.

The UC system is a totally different entity than a small arts college, but the professional degrees represent the same accomplishment and aim.s How would UC characterize the differences in education from these different institutions, and do they play dissimilar roles at a professional level? What does UC perceive to be the pluses and minuses between the professional studio arts degree program and their liberal arts or BA and MA program for those students entering a career in the arts?

If all students do not have a studio on campus, have other arrangements been made for a place where they can gather and analyze why they are doing what they are doing?

4. Most of the UC system [schools], with the exclusion of UCSD, premise their studio arts programs upon the teaching of technique for different medias. A high regard is placed on the necessary skills that are involved in crafting an object or constructing a picture plane.

If we view art production in the past twenty years, we see there has been a major shift away from the assumption that materials inherently carry ideas to issues and ideas of the producing subject as the driver of materials. For example, if an artist has ideas which would best be expressed by photography, out of necessity that producer learns the skill of photography. Thereby, the producer is no longer subject to the existing limits of materials and can begin to make formal decisions based upon an understanding of culture and apply that understanding to the appropriate material to provide for meaningful production.

If the UC system expects graduates in the studio arts (not applied arts) to participate in the art discourse, the University will most likely find it essential to transform this one aspect of an arts education, which has been fundamental to them for many years.

Possibly there is another way to describe the making of art rather than it having an equivalency with research, and the artist’s project as equivalent with the scientist’s on campus. It might be useful to articulate how profoundly different the study of the arts is in relationship to all other studies on campus. It might also be useful to mention that these studies virtually allow for a strident approach to scholarship, which is exclusively in the domain of analyzing the complexities of culture. And, ultimately, it is the engine which will be driving cultural production. It is the difference of art making to any other studies which will allow the art department to have strength and become respected by colleagues and administrators.

Very briefly, I would like to add that perhaps UC eventually might risk greater misunderstandings regarding the function and operation of aesthetic production through the description of similarities to the scientific method. In particular, the responsibility of the author to their production is decreased since the terms of judging a project are based upon success and failure. The commitment of the audience is often also reduced.

By making this equivalence, it may not allow for the complexities which one would hope to be expressed by the author. The most significant different I can think of in the visual arts is that this type of aesthetic production has the capacity (and some would say its job) to expose issues and problematize them, while it remains the job of science to resolve problems. The methodology which is brought to scientific research is often based upon models of cause and effect, while any adequate model of analysis in aesthetic production will necessarily have a dialectical dimension.

Yet, unfortunately, I feel it will be impossible until the administration is committed to an advanced level of education which upholds the highest standards possible and one which is not jeopardized by quantitative solutions to qualitative problems.

SP: I was thinking of the more formal aspects of psychoanalytic practice and why I brought it up. It’s actually something I took from listening to one of the Alan Watts lectures that used to play on Pacifica Radio. There’s a particular lecture, and it may be from 1958, where Watts is reading a paper by Jay Haley, who comes from the Basteson School and Frame Analysis, which looks at the psychoanalytic frame from a sociological point of view. It’s amazing. He describes the “art of psychoanalysis” as having something to do with the game of “getting the one up.”

MA: I have heard Alan Watts talking about that.

SP: He discusses all the ploys that a psychoanalyst learns in his training and uses in playing this game with the patient. And this reminded me of something like that goes on in the critique, where you might use certain ploys or tactics to break down, open up, expose something at another level.

MA: It’s true. I think the teacher that says they don’t is probably very … [Note: End of the sentence is inaudible.]

SP: I don’t know in your case if you could be more specific about how you do that. Lawyers learn the same thing, even how to tear a witness to pieces — and I’m not saying that’s what you do — but how to undo a person’s story. I think there is an element of that. I don’t know if you’ve heard the same Alan Watts thing that I did, but he discusses all the ploys; and at the end of the lecture, he describes a remarkable thing, how one day the patient arrives, perhaps after a long period of analysis, and the analyst begins with this play, but the patient doesn’t respond. What he’s discussing is the end of analysis, and it’s not on the analyst’s terms, but rather the patient’s. There’s a point in the treatment where the ploys no longer work, and it has nothing to do with the analyst’s incompetence. The patient simply refuses to go on playing. He doesn’t need it anymore. He simply doesn’t care what the analyst thinks. When I heard this, the analog to your class was striking. Again, I’m talking about the formal aspect, not what we were discussing earlier regarding the distinction between intention and motivation.

MA: I see what you’re saying. I am really sensitive to this thing about motivation. At the formal level, I could see where even my lack of saying something could make it seem like — [Note: Sentence ends here in original.]

SP: That’s one of the ploys Watts is talking about.

MA: The students do get nervous, I’ve been told over the years, when I don’t say anything. This person who had sat in on my class said, “you know, you didn’t say anything for three hours.” Really, I can’t imagine, that’s a little extreme. Things must have been going OK.

Did the length of the class grow?

MA: It did over the years. It was obvious that I was trying to shoehorn people in at the beginning. I couldn’t tell when somebody was really finished, and I thought, if it’s their responsibility, they ought to finish themselves rather than there being a time limit. So if one person took one hour and another took three hours that was fine. But that’s something they have to decide upon.

SP: It’s an incredible luxury. At every other institution I’ve been involved with or heard about, it’s very limited; you are given time slots by the institutional frame. And to have to conduct a critique in a short amount of time requires another kind of technique. You have to get to the most important points right away, because you’re looking at your watch the whole time knowing you have to move on in a half hour. It’s very difficult.

MA: That’s really rigorous. It’s very hard.

SP: It’s also hard for students to exceed those time limits. When they come to your class for the first time, they’re probably not used to that openness. For the students to be able to continue productively for so long is a challenge.

[Note: Inaudible response by Asher.]

SP: It’s a really uncomfortable feeling when you look across at students and you find they’re hanging on your every word.

MA: I really love it in Post Studio when it gets to the point where the students can correct me. It’s working then. It’s everything I want.

SP: That point in the analysis where they just don’t care. I’ve always been fascinated by that moment where something changes all of a sudden, and you don’t care.

MA: It’s terrific. If they feel they’re in a position where they’re correcting their peers, but I’m just there too, and they can correct me. They’re working on their own.

SP: They’re thinking for themselves. Sometimes I think students are not conditioned to think for themselves, that they’re conditioned somehow to believe there are answers out there in the world, if they would just do it this way.

MA: You know it begins with grammar school all the way through college. That if they get this form of education, they’re less likely to experience something like what you’re talking about.

SP: That’s why it can be a shock to come into Post Studio for the first time. I realize the luxury of having these endless critiques, and in other situations you are forced into a different posture as the instructor.

MA: I’ve sat in on Benjamin Buchloh’s class, and he just moves everyone along like a performer. He’s constantly asking students questions, so he’s trying to have contact with them and not try to say everything himself. But then again, he was always the one to correct them.

MA: I’m even hesitant that a work of art can be made from theory. A theory is a form of speculation. And the work of art is experienced not in the terms of speculation. So right then and there, just on the basic surface of it, you have a totally different experience.

MA: I know. I think it’s really important. That idea that art is irrational, illogical, ends up becoming a part of what makes it so undemocratic. It’s that not everybody always has so much access to the illogical and irrational, or can really understand what it’s about. 

SP: What do you mean have access?

MA: Well, why shouldn’t the viewer be able to follow a work through and comprehend it, rather than have to start looking for these illogical or irrational moments and say “oh, those are poetic, or self-expression, or this, that or the other thing,” which brings the sign of the work, of course, back to the author, rather than leaves it within culture.

SP: But those are precisely the terms in which the general public is taught to appreciate art. Not only the romantic idea of the Author, but more generally, the irrational aspects of a work.

MA: Yes, and I think that’s where a work of art tends to find its way into a class of people that can afford it.

SP: Because you have to pay more for the irrational?

MA: Yes, the have to pay for the extra play. 

SP: Maybe that’s why conceptual art never had any value. The more rational it looked, the less anyone would value it. Also, why would you pay for the everyday? Reproducing structures that existed everywhere else but the art world. People want art as an escape.

MA: Exactly.

MA: You know, last Saturday I walked into my bank and had to do a wire transfer to Brussels. I spoke with the manager, who is responsible for millions and millions of dollars each week, that it goes through properly, that it goes to the right place. She has to be very clear about it. I was giving her the address, and he city was Brussels, and she asked what country Brussels was in. I tried not to flinch, and then she said, “how do you spell Belgium?” I tell you, I walked out thinking “that is where my money is?” I can’t believe it. What does that mean, that she knows nothing about world history? It comes down to exactly what you were referring to, this idea of specialization has gone so far.

SP: I was thinking that one of the most inspiring things about CalArts was that it proposed the possibility of art education as a nonspecialized form of education —and this might be the most radical thing about it. That it could be a model of general education. Not in the sense of liberal arts education reform. But that art could be the key to a generalized education. Something like an application of all these things we’ve been talking about, not just to the work of art, but to the world. And in the end, that’s probably the most radical proposition that CalArts offered.

MA: I think it is an important one, one that’s wrestled with.

SP: And they’re now dismantling the idea.

MA: Yes, they say, “let’s prepare the students for a professional career,” and I’m the one who says, “let’s use the classroom for experimentation, let’s go through different ideas, let’s see the process, let’s see the mistakes,” where other instructors say “no, no.”

SP: Prepare them for a career.

MA: So you can see, just in those little things, sort of this tension going on. And I’m saying “OK, what I’m asking for should also take place after education is over with too. You should be able to be adventuresome, you should be able to experiment.” It’s sort of the market forces which disallow that, but regardless, you should be allowed to do that.

SP: It’s funny because that’s what the market thinks it’s paying for.

MA: But in fact they’re paying for a very cleaned up version, highly finished, highly produced and so on. The illusion of it all.

SP: The sign for creativity, the sign for imagination, the sign for experimentation.

MA: It’s very true.

SP: It’s complicated. There must be so much pressure at a school like CalArts for professionalism from the administration, the economic pressures that produce that.

MA: I think there’s a great deal of pressure on the school. Even the accreditation boards put the pressure, and that pressure is also a finish pressure. They want to see models of professionalism going on in each of the schools too. So you get it from all sides. And finally you have a student who really doesn’t get a very well-rounded education, or it points to that.

SP: What you’re saying is that they get the opposite of what is actually encouraged. Because they call for, certain disciplinary requirements that are supposed to assure that the students get a well-rounded education, but at the same time they’re calling for hyper-specialization, which emans more craft, more proven qualities, so the student never really gets the general education. It seems paradoxical.

MA: It does.

SP: Maybe you see a change in students. That they’re looking for authority, looking to be taught how to be an artist. That art education has become this thing where students are looking for specific instruction in how to become an artist.

MA: I certainly see that in some of my students, but some are enlightened and they’re there to get a grip on some of the questions and problems.

SP: It must be difficult how, given the times, you can sustain a school without succumbing to these pressures. The same question could be posed to practice: How to sustain a practice that resists such pressures? And how is a recent grad, who is just starting out, able to conduct such a practice, that is, get any play?

MA: Yes, if you know that the only way you can enter the art world is through a very finished work of art, that you have to learn everything to the extent that you can make this very finished work of art, and you’re accepted with that very finished work of art, what are you going to be doing for the rest of your life? Probably mutations of this very finished work of art.

SP: You’re not going to experiment too much. These are some of the greatest challenges in trying to teach art today. Or at least teach a sort of critical attitude, asking certain questions through the work of art. Who is going to engage those?

MA: And you can see some of the students think, “maybe I should learn about criticality because it’s the reviews that are going to discuss criticality, and I should be able to discuss with a reviewer what is critical about my work.” Something as simplistic and awful as that.

SP: But have you read recent criticism?

MA: It’s horrific.

An arrangement or field with a given set of possibilities 

indicated by its conceptions, material signification, and 

configuration in absence of which no constellation or weft 

or the bricks, they fall through. The ritual of the linemak-

ing. WHO SNAPS THE CHALK LINE. The invention of 

perpendicular as don’t let the walls fall in or shouldering 

shoulder space but lay it down that’s the grid and that is 

then the end of the commons and shx too hxr field of 

operations is then at that time also girded. Shx puts the 

handful of roots in hxr pocket, dirt and all; swallows hxr 

song in a hum.