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The imploding desk is stocked daily from a distance. Texts, sketches, aphorisms, photos, photos of photos, music notes, maps, lists, survey maps, agendas and the like all land here, all kinds of notes that are entered into the list. They form a temporary panel, consisting of a flotsam of thoughts drifting inwards and falling down in a spiral.
As a map, the horizontal panel of the table records traces of thoughts. Traces of thoughts delineate their horizontal panel, incessantly appearing / disappearing. This is a tape with no beginning or end, a tape without memory, since it is nothing but memory itself: empty.
But then our gaze falls from above to the panel, and literally through it, along its features, into a thought between them and us, them and them, us and us.
Our gaze falls to the top of a vivarium (that’s where I live), which I maintain and operate from inside and from afar, but which I do not own.
mts, 9 September 2011
(Werkbuch Manos Tsangaris)
Art museum of the