On Two Pieces - Tate Modern - 30/06/2k1  Michelangelo Pistoletto: "A Cubic Metre of Infinity (Minus Objects)" A box made of inward-facing mirrors. What is worse - to be trapped inside the box, or to be trapped outside it, forever trying to get in? I keep coming back to this piece - why does it bother me so much? I desperately want to know what is inside it. Presumably it is empty - but the mirrors reflect infinite space and hence it is a space of infinite possibilities. And if it is empty, and sealed, then what do the mirrors reflect? Can they be said to reflect if there is no light? Can we observe it inside, or will we perish with Shroedinger's cat, caught up in infinite uncertainties? I must build myself an infinity box. And what of infinity spheres? Cones? This thing is messing with my mind. I need, desperately, to get inside it. The box is a complete enigma. It reveals nothing, yet it contains everything.  Jean Tinguely: "Memorial to the Sacred Wind" Like a city at night, beautiful, terrible, it lies dormant, surges to life, shudders, roars, heart-stoppingly passionate, cranks, gears, cams, shafts and axles rattle, rotate and grind. When it moves, I feel alive, I flush, blood rushes through my chest, my stomach flutters, vision jumps, temples throb. When it is at rest, so am I too, but still alive, still breathing, resonant with the machine, awed by its beauty. Having seen its power, majesty, sheer force of everything tearing itself apart, await its resurrection. It's every machine that's ever been built, every wreck and rusting heap, memorial to junkyards, destruction destructured, and yet inspiring, uplifting, impossibly alive, shockingly beautiful and godlike. When it moves it aches, cries out in pain, cackles with mirth, laughs loudly and at length and then is silent again. My heart aches with it. |