Truth in trash

The art Is a lie used to tell the truth.
What is the point of talking into a machine that is unable to understand you? It is the same issues I've had with every other person I've ever spoken to. Words that sound like other words are transposed on top of each other. In the quantum world these words do exist and the songs that we don't know the words too also exist.
We often go back to the moment of waiting in line under Christmas lights  two hands brought  together, no electricity pass between the two.
Electric into time and into the future and I see you. All of the options that could be there. Your future, so bright. I push up against it with my hand and you hold tight.
The lights flicker and go out  and I hear you gasp as you feel me absorb the life from this moment.
I wonder if in that moment the words that we spoke came back to you? The words about an artist creating the world around them. The artist using words declaring what they want,
And all I wanted was to hold the hand forever.
My hand was open waiting for you to grab what you wanted.   And then your hand against mine found it and decided to cling to  this  moment. The Christmas lights flicker and are gone. We stood there waiting in line. I hope the lights remain off. 

And then your hand pulls away for fear of someone seeing as you're reminded of a discussion they had on the state of being.
The character of light and dark and the electric current that exists between the two.
Christmas comes back on,  never close again, except for every moment since then. 

They spoke on the idea of trash
in humanity as we picked up and threw away the  discarded. 
As I threw my trash over a fence I  speak on how there was more God that I saw  along the street then in any church.
Wax smoke  covers my clothes and turns them into Rags, is what is filling my lungs, and my brain. This is the Purgatory where I move the muck but go nowhere except for old memories.  it weighs thousands of pounds back and forth to be melted down. There will be no record of the work.
Trying to find something of value in all the death, The definition of art has now become unoriginal decoration. Of course everyone hates it. And there is nothing to understand of it.
Love Is Alive used to tell the truth?
Love Is A Lie used to tell a truth.
The lies that were told are now forgotten.

Your hand let go to let the trash fall away.

Mid cities tidal waves

Trains made into words spoken into the void reflect the faces of those witnesses to this moment.
The art is a lie, used to tell a truth.

Reaction frames

There has to be a witness. If there is no witness, one will be sculpted. It will be sculpted in something that will last a thousand years in the frames of our dna. A message that took more than a thousand years to get here. It is asking what do you see?

Thoughts on the process

1. Paying tribute to all of the Unseen workers that brought us to this moment. 
2. Looking at the suburbs from an Artisan's perspective by deconstructing the bronze casting process.
3. Creating a structural moment of pause in the noise that is distracting Us from this moment.
4. Being transplanted in and out of time,  a constant alien and foreign traveler brings a sense of permanence to its surroundings. 
5. The Continuous Observer views the moments across the globe, pulling them into the present, to travel along with us into the future.
6. The Artist uses the closest available materials to assist in bringing the reflections of the surrounding environment into being. 
7. The Substantial enduring characteristics of bronze has traditionally  relegated this material as  one that commemorates the life and death of individuals.
8. There is no crime of preference  when everything is reproduced to be the same.
9. The Artisan is preference in action, hidden behind the final product. 

 10. In the land of the seasonal rotation of replacement, we hold onto a specific moment that reflects and defines the species that we are a part of.

11. The goal is not to hold on to a specific  moment forever but to be ok with each moment as it comes.

A pause

The sculptural analysis of the bronze casting process.  A structural moment of pause in the artistic stream of consciousness.

The anthem of Atlas Shrugged The Fountainhead

We play the anthem of our recording to anyone who will witness
when we're gone the recording keeps playing through our children and grandchildren.
Atlas Shrugged The Fountainhead

Title

In the ever-increasing homogeneity of life originality is the only proof that you're not living a simulation
By deconstructing the process of bronze casting an artisan explores the suburbs and the process of those who  died to bring us here.