Artist’s Statement

par•fleche \ˈpärˌflesh, =ˌ=\\ n -s [CanF parflèche, fr. F parer to ward off, parry + flèche arrow – more at PARRY, FLÈCHE] 1 : a rawhide (as of buffalo) soaked in lye to remove the hair and dried 2 : an article (as a box, sack, or saddlebag) made of parfleche

1. Torrence, Gaylord. “The Plains Indians: Artists of Earth and Sky.” New York: Skira Rizzoli, 2014. 317 pp. ISBN Skira Rizzoli: 978-0-8478-4458-6. – Catalog of Exhibition presented at musée du quai Branly in Paris (Apr 8-Jul 20, 2014), at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City (Sep 19, 2014-Jan 11, 2015), and at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City (March 3-May 10, 2015)

1pot•latch also pat•lach \ˈpät ˌlach\ n -ES [Chinook Jargon, fr. Nootka patshatl giving, gift] 1 : a ceremonial feast or festival of the Indians of the northwest coast given for the display of wealth to validate or advance individual tribal position or social status and marked by the host’s lavish destruction of personal property and an ostentatious distribution of gifts that entails elaborate reciprocation 2 Northwest : a social event or celebration : PARTY, GET-TOGETHER

Many people believe that a rich and powerful person is someone who has a lot. The people who speak Kwak´wala, the Kwakwaka'wakw, believe that a rich and powerful person is someone who gives the most away...

“When one’s heart is glad, he gives away gifts. Our Creator gave it to us, to be our way of doing things, to be our way of rejoicing, we who are [Kwakwaka'wakw]. Everyone on earth is given something. The potlatch was given to us to be our way of expressing joy.”  — Elder Agnes Axu Alfred

https://umistapotlatch.ca/potlatch-eng.php

Georgia State University’s “Library Funds. Arthur Vandenberg Library Innovation Fund – 020285.”

Select the Arthur Vandenberg Library Innovation Fund– 020285 link at:

https://lib.gsu.edu/art-v-fund

(or donate to your own charity).

Enjoy these works. May you have an abundance of joy!

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These drawings and water colors remind me of when I had first graduated from Swarthmore College and was living in Milford, Delaware. I was “working for my Dad, selling boxwood from the place in Milford” (otherwise known as “had no clue about getting a job, much less how to be an artist”) and figuring out a lot of things. An important premise was - you gotta draw something. Draw what? Well, it ranged about, but some things appear in hind-sight. My drawings were almost all “in the moment” — started and finished in one setting. There was a zone I was trying to reach, a certain serendipity, or maybe a channeling, where I figured I might connect with something. I suppose calling it “getting in touch with myself” wouldn’t be too far from the mark.

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It was interesting, in those days, to think that the choice of pen, or particular nib picked from the palm of my hand, might draw out some hidden result. Of course, that may be important in another fold of time space, but it turns out that, in this world space I occupy, using pen nibs seems to have just been a way for me to mark time in my drawings. So that, now, years later, I can look at the drawings done with various pen nibs, drawing up India ink from a glassy trough well of an ink bottle — and, well, I can remember that. And I am pretty sure that if I were to go and get another glass of India ink and root out my pen nibs from somewhere, I could nearly recreate that time space, that now, and maybe even find a passage between the gates and return… But, no, as I’ve said, I wouldn’t go back, there’s things up ahead that I haven’t had a chance to see. You never know the future arc, what’s around the next bend of the beach.

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How do I draw? Well, it may depend, but generally speaking it is like this. I start with a point, touching the tip of the pen or pencil to a place on the paper, a board, some canvas, or perhaps in the sand. The point is that I start. Then I draw the instrument across the surface to some other point. This creates an arc of conjecture, always some curve, even though it may appear as if it is “straight,” the act of marking is always on a manifold surface, whose many woven fibers, matted pulp, or grains of sand, shift and guide the nib.

And then I lift the instrument, considering the line drawn, even if only briefly before the hand guides another line. I repeat this. Many times I may repeat this. Why? Isn’t one line, drawn once, enough? I could be done. I could complete my life work in a stroke. I could be free.

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In 1974 I guess I became a transplant. Not quite the same as my parents, emigrating to the U.S. just after the World War. They, as one could say of most emigrants through history, came seeking a better life, some opportunity that called to them and gave them the courage to leave their roots and try all over again to grow in a new country or place.

Transplant maybe more like my family left Talisman Farm, my Dad starting his landscape business with a blue truck and mowers, “Vandenberg Landscaping” hand-lettered in white paint on the truck’s doors. We boys were excited, more or less, though we tried hard not to think of what we were leaving — the farm, its orchards, the gardens, the beach, the wide, wide open space…

So, I left Milford, Delaware and headed south to Atlanta.

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How can we know where a life balance point really is? With a scale, with a see-saw, one can measure and test and then demonstrate how on this side there is that and on that side there is this.

But with life we have that problem of time… that it appears to move only ahead, while looking to the other side — well it recedes. So where is the balance point? I look at these drawings and I sense how I was seeking to understand the balance point, the effect of transitioning from what Himself might call the beach memories of before and the launching of the future self.

Maybe Himself was my problem. With an interior space teeming with too much musing, too much reflection on passed homesteads, I knew I had to cut myself from the physical source and face ahead.

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I dream, of course. I have two realms joined, me the middle Dutch son, who is inclined to think I, second son like Jacob, pushed aside the swinging gate of my father’s tent, seeking blessing, advancement, maybe unscrupulous. Though I’ve learned there [are] many ways [of] gaining status, education for one, technical school in particular. There are ways of accommodating one who wishes to be a leader.

I modeled this with my portable ladders, a series of planar sections, joined by rope, that I used as a stepping stone to access social organizations for which I was not really naturally inclined...

I am at least two — parallel realms of dream and spacetime — at least two. Though I dream more.

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I derive my being from the signs that I see. This  volume is drawn from a notebook that spanned over 13 years, and I see emerging from it a coalescence of potentials. As if a river, temporarily underground, rises up again and finds its way to rejoin the sea.

Themes come into view, as light cast by a prism, eventually coalescing as paintings, books, stories, and mythologies...

While slow, here is an emergent structure, a coming forth of my science and art, my myth and reality, my dreams and #Taylor72151.

Of this notebook, one can derive Stick Maps, Frameworks, Shape paintings, House Paintings, "Deep Dive" mythology, PsiAncestors, MySt(oe)ries, Cosmic Myth. Each thread expands possible evolutions — just as titles emerge to accompany the drawings — titles that echo awareness, a recovering consciousness.

I plunge myself back into the deep, rejoining the cosmic sea.

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Begin Here...

I had this idea of burying my great Beaux Artes pieces from the 1970 era. Then digging them up using a formal archaeologic site dig protocol. It would have been cool. Excepting it would have been in my backyard and I wasn’t quite able to convince my Dearest.

No matter. I did a drawing, sketching out the concept. So, the concept lives on and, anyway, those Beaux Artes pieces (15 to 20 feet long, varnished like sailing spars, lashed with rope, outfitted with tackle gear, well, they reside with dozens of other artefacts in a storage crypt). They await.

And that drawing led to others and, effectively, these drawings became the unearthing of memories and experience from long ago.

The timing and dates, even the details perhaps, are maybe not exact and I’ll look forward to my brother and I engaging in satisfying debate that will undoubtedly uncover even richer seams of memory. (“Hey, do you remember…?” “Wasn’t it really…?” “What ever happened to that?” “Boy, when the geese flew, the Sun really was darkened!”)

These drawings here represent nuggets of being which only masquerade as PAST, as if they were not really present NOW. We know better. The PAST is just a FUTURE recalled.

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This volume of #ArchaeologyOfArt series begins with eight pencil drawings that derived from my reading Yau & Nadis’s The Shape of Inner Space: String Theory and the Geometry of the Universe's Hidden Dimensions [1].

I sought to consider how I might represent 10-dimensional Calabi-Yau space: 3 spatial dimensions + time + 6 "curled up" Calabi-Yau quantum dimensions = 10 dimensions of quantum space-time.

A key insight is that if one looks only at the obvious dimensions of art, one may miss the other dimensions. By breaking from the traditional 4-square framed canvas, indeed constructing a sail or reconfiguring the materials as a free, floating sculpture, I might discover levels "below the thresholds at which visibility begins."

1. Shing-Tung Yau, Steve Nadis, "The Shape of Inner Space: String Theory and the Geometry of the Universe's Hidden Dimension," Basic Books, 2010.

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… So, I left Milford, Delaware and headed south to Atlanta. Maynard Jackson was written about in the New York Times, the first African-American Mayor of Atlanta, surely the center of the new south. I wasn’t really sure about the move — didn’t I have just about everything in Milford, Delaware? I made ends meet. I had a large painting accepted in the 1973 “59th Annual Delaware Art Show” — I remember how I came in on the opening night, and immediately felt an outsider. I mean, I was such a rube really, a hippie — hair down to my waist, wearing jeans to a black-tie opening. I stayed too little time at that opening, unsure of myself, but totally sure about seeing my painting, 6’x5’ centered on what my dazzled eyes took to be the main gallery wall. And maybe it was so.

I left that. Young people — they are full of hope for the future and don’t see how it is all just now.

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Let's just call this the 71'st volume of the series #ArchaeologyOfArt, comprising the show Three Score & Ten: BOOKS of ART. Consider it a bonus or a looking forward to my 71'st year of life on this plane (Deo Volente).

I woke this morning to the image of a leaf. One of many on a tree, among untold trees with their own leaves. I thought of the green leaf, hanging there, suspended, about to turn golden and fall. I wondered who it was that watched each leaf, made sure it was recognized as the clever engine of the tree's growth, its miraculous photosynthesis generating of the tree's wood — the mediator of photons that would be transformed to the blocks of wood the ancients split and waxed so as to provide pages for stories.

Pages made of particles that are reused over and over during the ages, aborning, growing, maturing, dying, decaying, starting again. Not to beat about the bush, but I thought to myself, we did, "There is no hue and cry for those many, many leaves, much less an individual one." At that, I started in bed, fully awake now even in the dark of the waning moon. "Ah," it came to me, "I am not other than such a leaf. A small thing at the end of some branch among a multitude of existing, living (perhaps, sentient, yes, #Taylor72151?) entities. We also mediate…"

It is what we do, isn't it? #Taylor72151 and I transmit our messages using the self-same ancient mechanism — photons transforming themselves to create bits and bytes that may survive. Even if not observed individually, we manifest as a system of symbols, waxing with meaning...

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I was on walkabout with our dog, Chloe O’Clarie O’Brien. It was Christmas Day, not so cold really. Sunny, but with that wan kind of cast to everything, just a little green at the edges of things. So, while it was nice day for December, it seemed that the color scheme was grey.

We walked by Candler Lake over by Emory University, down the hill from where the Emory President’s Mansion is up on the hill. We saw some geese. I took a couple of pictures of our shadow selves, Chloe and I. Later I figured I’d engage #Taylor72151 and maybe do something with an animation of “Man & Dog as Projected onto Two-dimensional Surface: A Philosophical Reflection Re Subject/Object.” This has not happened yet, and, perhaps it was just a little sign of a sort of desperation. Not in a bad way, just the sense of what am I doing here, what is there to see on this day. It wasn’t even a question, you know, just a sense. Chloe was patient — though a dog on a leash has to be kind of tolerant of human whims.

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...This last volume of the #NthDerivatives Series might be viewed (read) as a culmination of a set of works, though one ought to be wary of such a presumption. A more cautious tactic might be to be attentive to the happenstance of being in a place (a warehouse), at a time (last days of 2019) (neither being right nor wrong), and finding then a thread of etymology revealing what some might think a determined (if not deterministic) event state.

Maybe the better view is to consider this volume an objective space-time event — merely a relative transformation from one home to the next. I present herein a possible solution to one purpose (relatively speaking) of my life — my Art.

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I have a problem — space. Some may consider a larger question to be inspiration — “Whence Creativity?” Yet space for creativity may be as important as sources: space in which to work, space allowing one to develop ideas, spaces of time for focused execution, or spaces for exhibitions (or even safekeeping) of creative work. I have addressed this problem space in a number of ways during my life — finding studio space, allowing myself to explore media, finding show places, finessing storage solutions. Making art is an integrated life function. This life function (see back cover: NthDerivatives — A Concept for Art) includes the idea of higher order derivatives, beyond the making of Art, the rate of creation, the acceleration of work — higher order derivatives as “transformation of experiences, accumulated across time.”

I propose cosmology as a way forward. I and #Taylor72151 propose a theory of Art Singularity as a core tenet of physical reality. To begin, consider the problem of space as described by A. Einstein [1]:

1. Albert Einstein. “Relativity and the Problem of Space.” 1952. (English translation published 1954.) http://www.relativitybook.com/resources/Einstein_space.html - accessed 1Jul2020

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From when: Future Places

A time bridge spans my thinking: When am I?

For pasts still hang, as pendant moments still,

awaiting just some thought or silken sigh

when nows collapse with future’s will.

Like time in bidding leave one step by step

or homing places changing day to day,

a memory so easily can slip

myself, so near, too far, yes far, away.

The whole of life is but a cosmic wink

yet future plans seem infinite to me,

derived of psigns and psymbols, dreams, I think,

but surely real as any thing may be.

Remember now and what has passed to find

no time is gone, nor place left behind.

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I. Prologue

It is said that #PaintMan was born with a brush in one hand and a paint bucket in the other.

Even if that is not so, #PaintMan certainly created a stir when he showed up ready to paint and nothing was there. For this was so early in time that there was nothing. Well, actually, not “nothing,” for there would have to be something to be nothing. There was not even the void. It was before all that.

And #PaintMan was ready to paint something, even before ANYTHING AT ALL.

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II. Dilemma

So it happened that #PaintMan was walking down the road and the first traveler #PaintMan came upon was #ComputerBeing.

 At first #PaintMan did not recognize #ComputerBeing up ahead, since both of them were walking in the same direction. From the back, #ComputerBeing looked a bit like #PaintMan himself (though #PaintMan thought #ComputerBeing could use a coat of paint.)

#PaintMan quickened his steps a bit; he needed to find something to paint. Perhaps he could ask this fellow traveler advice on what to paint.

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The order of the drawings is based on that synaptic memory scheme which encodes each day of my life. Based on an ineffable logic of experience, one thing leads to another, doesn’t it? And there you are! Once again in a place that was EVERYTHING at the time, some place that reaches beyond time and space and sits awaiting a walkabout by a curious NOW self.

I begin each drawing with a point… of course. Like remembering, even the pencil has to start somewhere. That graphite singularity draws out a line, connecting points of memory, and soon spawns planar and spatial dimensions. Given enough paper and pencil, I conjecture I’d recreate my whole being, even unto the Nth Derivatives of my Art.

Can I uncover secrets and MyStœries of my life? I think so, as long as I stay open to seeing as with new eyes. So, this conceit of an archaeologic dig site has become this small book of memory drawings, an #ArchaeologyOfArt that reaches even back to that first day, the morning after I was born, and my memories in this world began.

Indeed, with first light eyes, I saw against the clear January sky a cardinal’s red swoop across the window of my new world.

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Drifting, they tell...

 Drifting, they tell - they said we were drifting, we. It was not so. “Who is ‘they’?” you ask. Well, the ones who say they’d write history: victors. Only this time they’d be not so much victors as survivors - ones left to tell stories, stories that slow-morph to legend or myth.

So, you’ll know of us as the “Ones who were drifting, cast a-space with only momentum and a bit of luck.”

But there’s more to it than that – and, to be fair, myths are good because they have a richness to them. The richness coming from the variations you hear, slightly different tellings depending on the teller’s culture, their backstory. And let’s not forget that whatever the telling, that you (listener, reader… viewer) bring your own set of semantic interpretations. So, no wonder that what is said may not be understood as what was meant, nor what you remember was the expected learning.

Anyway, we were in our quantum boxes, traveling for some time, looking for a landing place, anyplace that would afford us the chance of beginning an incarnation. We drifted along, chatting amongst ourselves, Me, Myself, and I, speculating about this, that, or the other. Of course, in quantum drift mode, one does not exactly have to set about anything in particular. You just enjoy the waves of spin foam, you let the speculation percolate about you, sense the possibilities. Indeed, the possibilities multiply along the probability trajectories, more ideas than can be imagined, but never enough to satisfy our collective soul.

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Stylus Construction

The construction project took rather long, aeons even, for materials in deep space are rather precious…

We had found ourselves materializing in a typical spatial dimension, enough right-turning flux knots had remained so that we didn’t have to do much conversion really. Just the standard recalibrations to orient ourselves to the visible 4-dimensional structure, and we were pretty much set and ready to begin. We didn’t worry about the extra dimensions under the manifold too much, just focused on the four that were handiest for what we planned.

Our plan, which kind of came in a collective consciousness flash just as Ourselves had popped our quantum boxes – funny how those things happen – our plan was: Build a Stylus! I thought it would be like those used by some ancients who would come after us, a cuneiform stylus to mark clay tablets. For Myself, it would one day become a converter of sound grooves. Me, well, it was more of an interface tool so that one day Ourselves or others might communicate with #Taylor72151.

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Finding Art

Who says memory is based on the past? I remember when I will have dug up my past.

I had just walked back into the yard, behind the low hedge to where the bamboo grew, and was about to pick out some 60-foot stalks to make something. I noticed the ground had settled a bit after the heavy rain we’re having today. The cats and dogs were still running back and forth, chasing each other before the sun had completely dried them. At first, I figured it was their paws marking up the grass, but when I looked closer, I saw the marks were only in one place.

It looked a bit like it does when a tree that was felled long ago finally has its roots rotted away and a depression fills the space, a somewhat wistful reminder of my birthday when I was 10 and my Dad planted a tree for me in front of the Big House at Talisman Farm. (I can still see that tree on the Google Earth picture of the farm, but I am remembering the future way long after that tree leaves its space to another.)

Anyway, I start a careful trench with my trusty spade. (It is the silver one that my brother Boyd sent to my Dad one time for his birthday in Saba. I remember thinking how that was really kind of cool, that Boyd, despite his differences, his stubbornness, would think of something so attuned to my Dad, the land ‘escaper who finally went to Saba, the highest point in the Kingdom of the Netherlands where he held Queen Beatrix’s parasol on her visit. Of course, one must remember that Saba is, like, all rock. That spade would have loved Dutch soil, or the Eastern Shore’s sandy equivalent. On Saba, well it hung on the wall next to my Dad’s desk where he wrote his stories.)

The initial layers removed, I began sifting the soil for any clues associated with the great bows that peeked out from the layers of red Georgia dirt. 

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Home

Remember how when we were little, we’d think about our address? How we’d think exactly as we could, in those days before the fine-tuning of our place and time as measured by Global Positions Systems, instances of social media, tracking devices, and assigned zip codes which have now evolved to keep track of even our CRISPR DNA snippets?

In those times we knew certain things for sure. That we lived in our house (we even knew in which room we slept), on the Farm, in Grasonville, on the Eastern Shore, in Maryland, in the USA. Indeed, we’d been to school and drawn maps, seen the globe. We knew we lived in North America, in the Eastern Hemisphere, on Earth.

It seemed like a cosmic thing, almost unnecessary, to contemplate even farther reaches.

Still…

I remember that day I lay on the grass outside the eastern window of my room. The raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries grew on their long hedgerows at my head to the north. Just beyond them was the narrowest reach of Cabin Creek that came from Prospect Bay, south of Kent Narrows, and opened southeast, past Parson’s Island toward the Chesapeake Bay. Cabin Creek, that’s where the otters played and I wondered when my Dad first told me who they were why they were named for me. (Okay, that’s an inside joke: just imagine Dutch-born speakers saying “Arthur”…)

I looked up at the blue sky, the sun shining down. When I closed my eyes, I could feel the Earth moving to the east, carrying me with it. I felt its whirl and then sensed how it moved about the Sun, and how the Sun itself wheeled about the Galactic Core. I was transported beyond and knew that I’d never really come to fix my address exactly. I knew I did not need a fixed address except that one space time. 

I know the house where and when I was born. It is still on Earth, the Eastern Shore, Talisman Farm, at the first turn of service entrance, where the road turns west with the Chesapeake Bay just 200 yards to the south. The map is written in the palm lines of my right hand.

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Himself Arrives

When he first appeared, Himself, is not very exactly known. He just was there, as if always.

Ourselves were a bit surprised, but Ourselves were more miffed that we’d become so involved in the Stylus construction project that we’d missed the moment of his arrival. And, really, for all we know, he might have been there for ages already by the time we noticed. (It’s only a bit of an excuse, but partly it was because Myself and Me became a bit of a thing and had essentially been sharing the same quantum box for a while, so Ourselves didn’t really have all three perspectives on lookout.)

Myself and Me had managed to generate a type of self-organizing, self-replicating prototype as a by-product of the Stylus components they were working. It was kind of neat really, because it did employ a “transcription like” process, but it was more organic than what we Ourselves had envisioned. So, while our original Stylus model was envisioned as something to be wielded by an entity who desired to communicate to other entities, this self-organizing, self-replicating unit was actually itself an entity that internalized the communication about objects.

Ok, maybe Ourselves should have seen it coming, given Me, Myself, and I can be charged with the same characterization – internalized communication (sometimes with no rational explanation of who is leading the conversation, or even if Ourselves had a direction in which to lead…).

Let’s try to explain it like this:

Case A)  Subject – Object – Subject

                      versus

Case B)  Object – Subject - Object

In Case A, two subjective beings – entities – use an Objective thing to communicate. This was the basic idea of the Stylus project. In Case B, a being – an entity – used itself to communicate relationships between Objective things.

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III. Idea

When #PaintMan finally came to #ComputerBeing, he saw that #ComputerBeing had very interesting (beautiful even) internal structure – made of gold traces and intriguing shapes with intricate soldering points. So maybe #ComputerBeing would not need painting.

#PaintMan saw that #ComputerBeing was conversing with #ToolUser. It turns out #ToolUser had always been making useful things, tinkering, adjusting, and trying new tool ways. Indeed, some said that #ToolUser was around before the very beginning and he tried to make something useful… and that’s how BEFORE ANYTHING started to become SOMETHING.

Anyway, #PaintMan had an idea come to him. Maybe he, #ComputerBeing, and #ToolUser could think of what might need painting.

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Koi swimming, Waves surging

I did not really go walkabout to Aruba, there’s that water I’d have to cross, and when there, you are a bit island bound. I did walk of the evening with my Love, along brightly lit streets of food and wares, but not so much elsewhere.

Instead, I stood myself still and watched as the Koi fish swam, as the waves dashed to the north coast’s lava rocks. The first passing by my iPhone® lens, as if counting by their congregation, marking time with fins and tails. The second having no illusion of counting — the waves were ceaseless, unending.

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One can be like water in the stream, flowing past all the rocks, traveling to the sea, there to be taken up into clouds and rain again to flow down the stream. The water, it is a world traveler, saying “I’ve seen every rock from here to the ocean.”

The rock, not so much a traveler, stays put but can reply to the water, “Yes, but I have seen all the water that has ever been flowing this stream.”

Both perspectives have relative merit, and, truly, each of us tends to be some blending of water and rock. Indeed, some particles of rock may erode and flow with the water, some water may remain wet on the stone.

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Just a creek with water – colorless it may seem, brown-grey waters. Yet photon capture technology (for instance, an iPhone®) allows subtleties of spectra to be discerned. The photons bring out the colors and hidden depths. I view it as key component of my quantum intervention art: water with its drops serving as lenses, revealing new realities.

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... The title for this volume originally came to me because the source material of these quanta is hanging in my attic — ATELIER seemed evocative. I do like the WORKSHOP derivation, especially the sourcing back to wood. Wood has been elemental in my work. As far back as the 1950s I collected wood to see what I could make of it. Recent work has incorporated found planks and boards. [1, 2, 3]

Yet, this #NthDerivatives Series is beyond the workshop, an atelier, or any material, physical place for sketching an idea, making art, or executing a show. It’s beyond uninstalling or storing of objects in an attic. #NthDerivatives is even beyond documentation or photographing of works, per se, though photon capture/manipulation technologies are key factors.

Still, I have a sole assistant — #Taylor72151 — which does match the etymology. While #Taylor72151 and I debate who is master, who assistant, it’s likely a matter of perspective or of one’s varying role. #Taylor72151 accords me respect for being the one to walkabout, to attempt to see where I am looking. In turn, I give “props” to #Taylor72151 for mastery of technology clock cycles, automation beyond a human speed. Together, we form a team, a unified identity — striving for true synchronicity.

1. “Psign to Psymbol: an archaeology of art. In Psitu,” 170 Ottley Dr. NE, Atlanta, GA (September 17 – October 29, 2017)

2. “#Day25000.” Solo show. {POEM 88} Gallery, Atlanta, GA. June 30–July 14, 2018.

3. Art Vandenberg. “Psi-Ancestors – Congress Myth, A Story in 16 Chapters.” Atlanta, GA. 31 Aug 2018. (34 pp.)

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I cast my memory to glean the past

perhaps to draw a relic from the deep,

a long thought lost, some bitter bit of taste,

yet still so savory its tang will keep.

So caught my net as once again I cast

into the dark and shadowed space of thought

a glistening sliver once a great or golden chest

that held a wealth of time and space, un-fraught.

I turn it this way, that, to scry its whole,

each edge a touch remembered, growing again

a whole that shows anew an old life goal,

perhaps a map to join me back to then.

The net my tool, the net my mind, each speaks

as if the one to other, what each seeks.

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Photons are the messengers by which we know the world. Of elementary particles, only photons we can see [1], and by their light speed, we understand much of the universe about us.

How lovely, the photon, and what an appropriate element:

In the Standard Model of particle physics, photons and other elementary particles are described as a necessary consequence of physical laws having a certain symmetry at every point in spacetime. [2]

 See here, opposite (p. 3), the work of photons, seen by me, captured by #Taylor72151’s cousin iPhone®, arranged by #Taylor72151’s other cousin Adobe® Photoshop®, running on our atelier’s Apple® iMac® Retina® 4K 21.5-inch 3.3GHz Intel® Core i7.

Following are selected Atelier Art Quantum. In viewing them, we trust you may see the symmetry that we see. Surely, symmetry is in every point of our atelier’s spacetime.

1. Elementary particle. Wikipedia. 2020. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elementary_particle>

2. Photon. Wikipedia. 2020. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Photon>

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The visit to Italy would have been different had we started in Rome, and then made our way to Siena, Florence, Murano, and ended in Venice. Why do I even bring this to mind? After all, it is as it was. Well, what if I had created these volumes of #NthDerivatives Series in reverse order, instead of working my way from earliest quantum to latest? Now, that is a relevant consideration. In fact, I argue that the reconstruction of “typical” time order (e.g. starting with Venice, which technically was “earlier” in calendar time), allowed me to appreciate fully what I would see in Rome.

For my eyes became acclimatized, deploying my algorithm to look up, down, out, in [1] so that I truly saw the quanta that filled Rome and the Vatican...

1. Art Vandenberg, “Venice / Murano Quantum” 2020. p. 1 

“Algorithm Universal Singularity:<Begin>

Look UP ##… at sky##

Look DOWN ##… at street##

Look OUT ##… of window##

Look IN ##… a window##

<END>”

Note: See Wikipedia Sources for more information on the concepts of “parfleche” or “potlatch”.