I REMEMBER VISITING Tony Conrad one morning in his hotel room in Rotterdam, where I’d traveled to see his performance of 7360 Sukiyaki, 1973, alongside a screening of his more canonical structural films and a concert of amplified drone violin. Anyone who knew Conrad can recall how he occupied his spaces, with a proliferation of instruments and/or equipment of various vintages, in variable conditions of repair, each one related to an ongoing project in some state of completion or incompletion. Although he could not have been in his hotel room for more than twenty-four hours by that point, his gear already covered every available surface. In the midst of unpacking, he’d found a short in the cable to his violin, which he proceeded to patch with the foil cover of a packet of marmalade from the hotel restaurant. I was likely the only audience member to know the culprit when the
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