TABLE OF CONTENTS

PRINT January 1971

The Art of Existence: Three Extra-Visual Artists

IT SEEMS A TRUISM at this point that the static, portable, indoor art object can do no more than carry a decorative load that becomes increasingly uninteresting. One waits for the next season’s polished metal boxes, stretched tie dyes and elegantly applied liquitex references to Art Déco with about as much anticipation as one reserves for the look of next year’s Oldsmobile—Ford probably has a better idea. At least a couple of routes move away from this studio and factory generated commodity art. One urge seems to be to employ physical materials and processes in an exterior situation where gigantic scale, vast amounts of natural materials, and the power of great quantities of energy, both natural and technological, can be brought to bear on the interaction of making. But another side to outdoor making might be referred to as “designated” art or an art of location. Such work comes under the labels of both conceptual and earth art. This work de-emphasizes construction, process, and the application of transforming energies to materials. There can be located within this attitude affinities to certain forms of indoor art which are usually tagged “environmental.”

The particular kind of indoor, environmental art I wish to isolate as having an affinity with some of the more or less “unmade” or designated outdoor work is that which does not present a great deal of visual incident. I do not mean to imply that the outdoor work with which I am comparing it suppresses visual incident. Even in the desert nature is fairly busy. However, I think as this indoor art is described certain intentions and attitudes will emerge that tie it to certain outdoor work. Several artists on the West Coast, such as Michael Asher, Larry Bell, Robert Irwin, and recently, Bruce Nauman, are exploring situations which in overt terms are very visually pared down. And, of course, characteristic of the work of these artists is the total negation of any process than can be located within the source of stimuli. This does not mean that process is not very much part of the work. It is, but it is located within the one who participates in the experience of this art. That is, one is thrown back onto one’s awareness of such things as the duration of acclimation to a dark room (to take Bell, for example) during which a certain piece of specific visual information gradually becomes sensate. A certain duration of time is necessary for the experience of much designated outdoor art. Unless one is satisfied with the instantaneous photograph, one is required to be there and to walk around in the work. But it is not the physical necessity of duration in order to experience—either walking, adjusting to the dark, listening carefully, etc.—that seems basic to either the outdoor or indoor mode of art in question. Rather I think it marks itself off in another way from art so obviously involved in presenting itself as “action“ taken in the world and revealed in retrospect by objects and residual or implied processes of transformation. It does this by presenting situations which elicit strong experiences of “being” rather than the implied actions of the “having done“ common to much “thing” art that is now available.

The work in question seems to move away from the insolvable duality between thing and action. Nominally static and literally objectless, it seems also to have escaped from that deadly formalism that inevitably comes to be attached to the relationships found within external objects of whatever nature and provenance.

Over the last year or so I have been in contact with several younger artists—mostly working on the West Coast, some in the Midwest—who are exploring this area of what I can only call “existence art.” Some are working cooperatively on projects, others are strictly individual, and so far as I know these artists are unaware of each other’s work. I will try to describe as well as I can the current projects of three of these artists. Other than a description, the only access to the work is by direct experience. The three artists described below were all rather reluctant to have photographs released since they are quite consciously striving for a non-, or at least, extra-visual situation.

MARVIN BLAINE IS AN ARTIST working in Northern Ohio. I first saw sketches of his work when I visited Oberlin College two years ago. About a year ago we made a trip together to visit the Great Serpent Mound in Ohio. Blaine had grown up around the mounds of southern Ohio. In 1967 and 1968 he made a few tentative, and as he admits, very derivative earthworks based on Indian mounds. His first efforts were on a small scale and the artist has come to regard them as very unsatisfactory. He told me that in his high school years he had spent a summer excavating a few mounds. The process was to sink a shaft about three or four feet in diameter directly down from the top. If any finds were made a more systematic, layer by layer excavation was undertaken. Blaine recalls that the experience of working in these initial probing shafts—an entirely enclosed, non-architectural space—had impressed him more than the external form of the mounds themselves. He began to make sketches of dolmen-like forms to be covered with earth, and caves dug into bluffs.

In the fall of 1969 he and several other Oberlin students began excavating an interior space in the side of what Blaine assumes is a small natural hill. The symmetrical form of the hill had led some to suspect that it might have been a burial mound but trial cores dug in 1966 had located nothing. Blaine says he knows of no mounds so far north in the state—the location is just outside the town of Lagrange. The land was leased from a farmer and actual work started in late August, 1969. The hill rises about 50 feet and is some 300 feet in diameter at the base. About 20 feet up the southeastern side Blaine began to excavate a rectangular tunnel about five feet wide, seven feet high and sloping downward into the center of the mound at about 20°. The opening was carefully cut by hand some three or four feet into the hill, timber shoring was set in flush with the planed surface of the walls and ceiling, and a back hoe was brought in. The excavation was a rather complicated process since there was little room for the equipment to operate and the loose dirt was laboriously wheeled out in wheelbarrows. This narrow passage was maintained some 15 or 20 feet into the hill and then rather steeply drops away at about 35°. At this point the chamber proper begins as the side walls and ceiling also widen out at the end of the passageway at about the same increment. The chamber itself resembles a truncated pyramid with its base forming the back wall which measures about 18 feet square. The inner room or chamber is perhaps 25 feet deep from where the passageway begins to dip down toward the back wall. The general effect of the interior is that of a disorienting geometric space. The artist explained that a great deal of hand finishing with cutting spades was necessary since the back hoe was only capable of rough excavation.

Blaine found that he had run into a small underground spring at the bottom northwest corner of the inner room and a sump had to be brought in to pump out the floor of the cave and keep the mud to a minimum during the finishing stage. But over a weekend it was found that the water had risen only about two feet at the back where the floor meets the wall (the lowest part of the room). Blaine decided that he would not fight this seepage since he objected more to the mechanical pump than to the water. He built a kind of catwalk of 2 x 12-inch planks from the point where the passageway enters the room over to the back wall. There are three of these plank walkways fanning out to the back wall and supported by 4 x 4-inch timbers driven into the floor of the chamber. On entering the chamber it is difficult to tell if these walkways are level since the entire space is so disorienting to the body and there is so little light in the room—the only illumination being that which comes in through the passageway from the outside. Blaine informed me that the walkways slope at 10° toward the back wall but one has the sensation that it is steeper. One can walk down these planks to the back wall and stand some three feet above the rectangular portion of water that collects at the back of the room. Planks had also been set down in the floor of the passageway in order to wheel out the dirt as the excavation proceeded. The last work was to remove these, square up the floor and pour three inches of concrete on the floor of the passageway. Blaine was not happy with the concrete but it seemed the only solution to the dampness and mud through which one would otherwise have to walk to get to the chamber.

By means of a transit at the top of the hill the artist had laid out a double row of stakes from the entrance down to the floor of the meadow and continuing out about 100 yards into the flat area below the hill. These stakes were laid out at precisely 37° 15’ southeast which is the direction of the summer equinox sunrise for that latitude of the state. The stakes were sighted on as the passageway excavation progressed so that the orientation of the slit into the hill would follow exactly that southeast/northwest declination of the equinox sunrise.

I flew out to Ohio on June 21 to be on hand for the equinox sunrise the following morning. We drove to the site about 4:30 a.m. on the 22nd and waited around outside for it to get light. In the dim pre-dawn light we could see that there were a few clouds to the north and west but the eastern part of the sky was clear. About 5 a.m. Blaine, the four other students who helped him, and I climbed the short rise to the opening, felt our way down the passageway with the help of flashlights and distributed ourselves on the three planks to await the first rays of the sun. Since there are trees on the horizon directly to the southeast, Blaine explained that he had moved the opening up the hill to be high enough so that nothing but sky could be seen from the interior. This also meant that the sun would have already risen a few degrees above the horizon and would clear the tree line before the first rays penetrated the chamber.

At about 5:20 a.m. an intense band of yellowish light appeared about a foot or so below the top of the back wall. During the initial seconds, this was a strip no more than a couple of inches thick and extending laterally as a horizontal band about six o.. seven feet wide directly in the center of the back wall. The strip progressed in a thickening band down the center of the wall at a pace just short of one’s ability to actually perceive the increment. I was standing on the center plank, Blaine and the others occupied the planks on either side which were about five feet apart at the back wall. By about 6 a.m., the rectangle of intense sunlight on the wall must have measured about six by five feet. The rest of the room was still relatively dark and the beam of light was a visible shape similar to what appears overhead in a movie theater—except of course this was a strangely gold or yellow chunk of light. By about 8 a.m., I had moved to a side plank in order not to interfere with the rectangle of light now expanding down the wall to within about six feet of the center plank. I was feeling the dampness and even a slight chill. We all had coffee from a thermos and as I looked up I noticed that the top edge of light was shrinking downward. As the sun was rising higher and was beginning to align itself with the top edge of the entrance and then to go beyond it the rectangle of light would begin to disappear—much like someone pulling down a window shade. Blaine had calculated the angle of the opening passageway so that the rectangle of light would not quite reach the planks. At its largest, the light probably measured some six feet by eleven feet. By 8:30 a.m. it was beginning to diminish from the top. I don’t recall how long we remained. It must have been close to 9 a.m. when we decided to go out. By then the light as a coherent rectangle at the back of the room was fading in intensity, hue, and coherence.

The artist said little about the work. He was unaware of a work by James Turrell I had seen the summer before in which nighttime traffic and street lights came in through a front window and floated across a large empty wall. Blaine was acquainted with Egyptian art and Hawkins and White’s interpretation of Stonehenge as an astronomical computer. However, Blaine claims he is not an artist. He refused to give me any photographs and insists that none have been taken or will be taken of the work if he can help it. Everyone who worked on the piece agreed that it was to be made only for the occasion of the equinox and that no attempt would be made to preserve the work. Since there is almost no timber shoring in the ceiling and walls, Blaine expects seepage and winter frosts to cause fairly rapid deterioration. The farmer who leased the land has complained about the chamber as a hazard and Blaine agreed to close the entrance after June. I assume that by now the work has in all probability been closed.

On the way to the airport. the following day the extremely taciturn Blaine revealed that he had notions for several other works that he might realize the following summer. When I inquired about how he managed to finance his projects he candidly admitted that he “was rich enough to subsidize a few farmers for not growing their damn corn.” And in what must have been an allusion to an aspect of the art world, Blaine also said that he “didn’t need Minnesota Mining to pay for the dirt either.” He insists that he wants nothing to do with the art world, which in his words, “Is no longer about just turning over commodities, but is about people themselves getting bought and sold.” A friend of Blaine’s riding in the car volunteered the information that a good friend had been killed at Kent and the five of them had decided that from now on they were going to do “pig art.” “You know, pig art as art as art.” No, I didn’t know. It was explained that they were going to consider “what they were able to do to the pig as their art.“ Nobody wanted to discuss this further. Blaine simply said that the cave was a private thing and he was consciously removing these private efforts from his mind as art. The easiest way to remove the efforts from being taken as art by others was to have no photographic memory exist.

JASON TAUB IS A 27 year old artist working in San Diego. His background is in bionics and he still supports himself by doing research in this field. He says that most of his ideas for art came from failed scientific experiments or from one form or another of aborted research. After having worked with high-frequency sound perception in anechoic chambers for some two years, Taub became interested in the possibility of the perception of electromagnetic energy as art material. The artist points out that he began on the basis of work already carried out on a scientific basis at Cornell. The perception of radio-frequency energy between 1 KC and 100 Gc has been explored there. Taub mentioned that various researchers, notably Fry, had been able to modulate transmitter parameters to induce such perceptions as a sense of “severe buffeting of the head and a kind of pins-and-needles sensation around the temporal areas of the head.” As these sensations could be induced in the deaf it was concluded that these perceptions were somehow extra-audial. In conversation, Taub spun out lengthy theoretical explanations for the perception of radio-frequency—most of which I neither remembered nor understood. But in the most general terms Taub suggests that since there is an electrostatic field surrounding the neurons it is most probable that the transmitted electromagnetic energy (in the form of radio-frequencies) interacts with the magnetic field surrounding the neurons. ’Taub is now working on modulating radio-frequencies (rf for short) in a number of ways. He says that “theoretically there is no reason why visual effects could not also be generated by rf if in fact the perception is at the neuron level and not through the normal preceptors of the ear.” He claims that the head is not much different from a radio in its ability to monitor rf—“about one order of magnitude of difference so far as sensitivity to rf goes,” he says.

Taub was in the process of building a kind of double room in the shape of an hourglass when I visited him last March in San Diego. This was set up in an old warehouse near the waterfront, a huge space full of all sorts of electronic gear. Taub was framing up this enclosure which in effect was two circular rooms about 15 feet in diameter and some 10 feet apart, connected by a passageway of two in-curving walls that were tangent with the circumferences of the circles. When I saw the work only the 2 x 3 studs were up. Taub intended to cover the inside—walls, floor, and ceiling—with a light industrial carpeting. He wanted to spray a light coating of foam over the entire exterior to dampen ambient noise but had not figured out how to do this since metal lath would interfere with his transmitting equipment. He explained that the shape of the room was not important for the transmission of rf since “lenses” were available to focus the rf into coherent beams which maintained themselves up to one hundred yards or so. The hourglass shape was merely to “shape the perceiver” as he put it—i.e. confine him to an area that would have a relation to the type of modulated rf transmission focused on him. Also, he wanted to keep the visually distracting electronic gear out of sight and an enclosure allowed the equipment to be set up around and outside the perceiver’s room.

I did not know what this “shaping of the perceiver” was about until Taub turned on the equipment and invited me to enter the framed up enclosure. As soon as I stepped into one of the circular spaces I felt rather than heard a sound which seemed to be inside my head. It seemed similar to what one experiences when one hears a ringing in one’s ears except the experienced sound was much lower. As I moved around in the circular framework, the sound seemed at times to come from behind me, but for the most part it was definitely within my own head. Taub had “focused” the rf from several ominous looking black transmitters outside the enclosure in such a way that the nearer I got to the stud walls the fainter the sensation seemed. He then suggested I walk through the narrow part of the room but insisted that I do it quickly. I did so and sensed an increase in intensity of the sensation, something like a buzzing which changed to almost a rattling in the very center of the passageway. I found that part unpleasant and Taub agreed that most people did and in fact there is still some question as to the safety of experiencing that particular rf modulation. Taub claims he is still adjusting the various modulations and once the enclosure is complete he will continue to alter the rf from time to time.

Unlike Blaine, Taub feels that what he is doing is very explicitly art. He admires Asher’s work but finds it “too estheticized, like all California art.” He is still dissatisfied with the necessity for the “enclosing, environmental aspect” of what he is doing. Taub showed me several sketches for enclosures which were more explicitly passageways. He discussed the possibility of setting up the rf transmitters outside in some quiet area, but the technical problems of noise and power generators have so far discouraged Taub from attempting to work outside. He suggested that the ideal surroundings for the experience would be water—some kind of large pool or tank with the perceiver fitted out with scuba gear. Taub feels that an aqueous medium would present few transmission problems while efficiently masking background noise. He is also interested in the effect of pressure at depths over eight feet on the perception of rf. Taub himself is an expert scuba diver and once did research at the Scripps Institute of Oceanography on underwater radio signaling related to John Lily’s earlier work on dolphin communication. I saw an entire notebook devoted to underwater environments which dealt with shifting artificial currents and temperatures effected by means of strong jets of warmer and cooler water.

*

ROBERT DAYTON BEGAN DOING wall pieces about three years ago which involved certain chemical reactions—primarily acids attacking walls. Some of the pieces utilized glass troughs and perforated glass tubes through which nitric and sulphuric acids spilled or seeped down a wall. These works were developed by applying other reactive chemicals to the wall beforehand. Sometimes these were inhibiting chemicals and films sprayed onto the wall before the glass sieves and spilling troughs released the attacking chemicals. Probably the most visual of these early pieces involved applying various forms of “liquid crystals” to the wall. These films of crystals are sensitive to heat and change color with temperature. The heat from the chemical reactions of the acids attacking the gypsum in the wall altered the color as the acid seeped down—the general effect was of changing halations surrounding the stains and streaks formed by the descending acid. Dayton felt these were limited by the temporal aspect, that the work was too much of a performance, and in his words, “it wasn’t nice and nasty enough.”

An accident with these acids (a glass tube of sulphuric acid broke as the artist was installing it) left Dayton with about one-third of his vision. He has now begun to work after a long period of eye operations and hospitalization. He claims that the ideas for his present work actually came from hospital experiences with anesthetic gases. Convinced that he would not regain his sight he conceived of using gases as a means. To this end he has converted a large barn outside Sacramento, California, into a series of what he calls his “gas chambers.”

These gas chambers are simple, square rooms built within the space of the huge barn. There are three rooms of different sizes: a small one about 10 by 12 feet with a low 8-foot ceiling, a middle sized one about 15 by 15 feet, and a large room about 15 by 20 feet. Both larger rooms have 10-foot ceilings. All of the rooms are finished smooth inside and painted white. A small mesh border runs around top and bottom of the walls on all sides. These registers function as gas inlets. The middle room has additional inlets in the form of half-inch slits, or a kind of gap at each of the four corners where the walls do not quite meet. An 18-inch diameter mesh circle in the ceiling conceals an exhaust fan which is mounted on top of each of the rooms. Each room has a single flush door painted white. The floors, presumably concrete, are covered with a neutral brownish-gray industrial carpeting. Each room is a physically separate entity within the larger barn. This allows Dayton free access to all exterior sides of each room in order to manipulate gas inlets, pressure gauges, mixing lines, and various tanks of compressed gases. The outside of each room presents a maze of plastic and copper tubing and gauges which seem to be growing over the walls like some weird industrial vine. Running along a wall outside the larger room is a mass of tubes and machinery which make up a complex mixing and pressurizing chamber of Dayton’s own design. Three outlet vents from the rooms join into a single flue toward the roof of the barn. Cases can be introduced nearly anywhere around the top and bottom of the walls of the first two rooms as nozzles are placed every 18 inches. These nozzles lead directly to the registers of mesh. Dayton is not satisfied with this arrangement. While flexible in terms of plugging in gases at nearly any point, the system does not mask the typical hissing sound of compressed gas leaving a jet. When I was there Dayton was working on a baffling device of acoustical fiberglass which would suppress the noise and still allow the gases to pass into the room. The lighting also bothered the artist. Instead of the naked fluorescent fixtures that are now installed he intends to drop the ceilings and install indirect lighting. The dropped ceilings would also conceal a more efficient inlet and venting system as well.

It was unnerving to listen to the nearly blind artist discuss visual details of the rooms down to the most precise kind of joint he had planned, and then comment, “Of course, I won’t be able to see it when it’s done but I’ll know how it looks.“ Another remark he made about the visual aspect of the work was that he hoped “people would not have to bother with looking any more than I am able to once they are in the room.” Dayton himself is a fairly unnerving personality. He keeps his head shaved, which seems to accentuate the deep scars on his face and neck. He also wears a monocle around his neck which he occasionally peers through if he needs to see a detail or read a gauge. He seems to enjoy playing up a certain sinister ambience that surrounds his work. When I was with him he frequently squinted at me through the thick glass of his monocle and would leeringly compare the venting systems of Buchenwald and Belsen. When he first showed me the inside of the rooms he asked if I thought shower heads as gas inlets would be unsightly.

It was with a little trepidation that I asked the artist if I could experience some of the rooms with various gases. Dayton asked me if I wanted to see a menu, and made such comments as “the chlorine is very fresh today.” He decided to start me in the middle room with ozone—“a genuine, measured, esthetic quantity,” as he put it. Standing inside the middle room I could hear a faint hissing sound, saw nothing, but smelled the familiar, almost electrical odor. At the time I did not know if ozone was harmful and hesitated to breathe deeply. But after a few minutes Dayton entered and I felt more reassured. We stayed for about 10 minutes and said nothing. I did not know if the gas was affecting me physically or not, but it was a strange, euphoric 10 minutes.

I spent the entire afternoon with Dayton and his gas chambers. He insisted on giving me what he called a “retrospective gassing.” After the ozone experience we went into the smaller room where the artist introduced a couple of the first gases he had tried. These were iodine and bro- mine halogen vapors. First the iodine vapor was let in by the bottom registers. I sensed a vaguely violet mist rising from the baseboard area around the room. After about five minutes the entire floor was covered with a dense violet cloud. Dayton entered the room, kicked at the cloud and said, “This was the first effort. Dis- gusting. I’m more than half blind and I started right off thinking in color.” Bromine was sent in on top of the iodine. This was brownish and the few whiffs I got were very acrid. Unlike the iodine which is heavier than air and sinks to the bottom of the room, the bromine swirled around breaking up the violet cloud. I could not take it after about three minutes and left the room feeling asphyxiated. Dayton was outside grinning and insisting that he had put plenty of oxygen through the side vents. In the larger room Dayton went through what he called his “fart palette”—various mixtures of butyl acetates, nitrobenzene, butyl mercaptan, etc. All of these had vaguely associative odors and were invisible. Dayton described this group as his “middle period” and as being “coarse, awkward, mawkish, and suitable only for blind basket weavers.” The last gases undoubtedly presented the most interesting and unfamiliar experiences. All were invisible, some had strange, almost electrical odors related to the ozone smell. Others stung the nose. But the main effect was not one of odor. I remember my hands feeling heavy and sweaty at times. With some of the other gases I felt slightly dizzy or felt my face flushed. At one point my hearing became strange and I felt somewhat high. It was an exhausting afternoon. Dayton explained that the last gases were his own mixtures which he could rapidly vary in his new mixer and compressor. He let me know, moreover, that they were “secret and dangerous in larger amounts.”

Dayton claims he wants to build a “vaguely wholesome chamber of horrors.” The first item for this project was to be a “Negative Ion Chamber.” “It’ll be ten times juicier than Willy Reich’s Orgone Box,” Dayton insisted. This chamber would get rid of “brain 5-hydroxytryptamine” and in Dayton’s words, “that’s really something to get rid of.” I saw a number of components to this chamber that a friend of Dayton’s, Sidney Boyd, was beginning to put together in a corner of the barn. They had completed a large humidifier and were waiting delivery of additional Wes-six ionizers. When finished, the chamber would resemble a small closet with a kind of contoured couch in which one reclined. The sketches looked even more sinister than the exteriors of the three rooms. But according to Dayton negative ions have been found to have a positive effect on living organisms. Dayton was ecstatic about the project, peering close up at electrical connections through his magnifying glass monocle, leering at Boyd and rattling off comments about “brain monoamines, fluorometric analyses, and dose thresholds,” none of which meant anything to me. He presented me with a stack of photo-stated articles from such periodicals as the International Journal of Biometerology, Behavioral Science, and Aerospace Medicine, that dealt with experiments with negative ions. In the conclusions of a couple of articles there were even some guarded, almost resentful, scientific admissions that negative ion exposure can “inhibit a conditioned emotional response of fear.” Both Boyd and Dayton seemed to find the mad-scientist-cum-diabolical-artist hilarious and as I drove away from the barn, Dayton shouted, “Screw the MoMA, but see what you can do for me at Auschwitz.”

OF THE THREE ARTISTS, Blaine is the most conventional, and his work presents at least a nominal visual aspect which the work of Taub and Dayton does not have. All of the work involves the necessity of real time to be experienced. Blaine’s technological means are primitive while both Taub and Dayton employ a high level of technical means and scientific knowledge. All three artists are working outside the art system, although Taub seems eager to present his work within it. Blaine professes contempt for anything connected with the art world. I was unable to cut through Dayton’s ironies and posturing to be able to determine where he stands with regard to this question. Blaine is independently wealthy and this perhaps explains his aloofness from the art world with its commodity and high pressure promotion atmosphere. Taub supports his work from straightforward scientific research. When I questioned Dayton about his funds he merely said, “I knew you’d ask that sooner or later.”

I am not especially interested in evaluating these artists or in judging the individual “quality” of one’s work as compared to the others. What is of most interest is that these artists have found an open area to work in at a time when there is a sense of art having become closed down and constrained. And while there is nothing startlingly new about environmental art, this work (especially that of Taub and Dayton) allows for an interaction between the work and the perceiver that functions on a new level. This is a highly physical level in which the perceiver’s nervous apparatus itself is stimulated on direct physiological levels. One could argue that any object in one’s field of vision must necessarily also stimulate the perceiver in physiological ways. It is perhaps a matter of degree—e.g. that difference between hearing the tones of a sine wave generator and perceiving radio-frequencies that are, physiologically speaking, extra-audial. But somehow the latter seems more aggressive and insistent on the one hand, and at the same time the experience emphasizes very intensely that one’s responses are so patently within oneself. Undoubtedly this is due largely to the suppression of an objective source of stimuli that can, be located externally and separate from oneself. Gases which are neither visible nor decidedly external from oneself by virtue of a strong odor, yet affect one’s physical and psychological states, also establish this dual situation of the intensely physical and self-reflexive. It is the establishment of this new plane of experience, which to me seems qualitatively different from the possible responses to external objects, that seems significant.

Robert Morris

I have illustrated a diagram I made from memory of Blaine’s work. It is undoubtedly out of scale and proportion, but will hopefully add to the verbal description in presenting an overall sense of what the chamber was like. Blaine insisted on no photographs and this diagram is perhaps also against his wishes. But the description itself would perhaps be objectionable to Blaine. I take the responsibility for the artist’s ire since I feel the experience of the work is worth communicating.