Catalogue
Forty plates
Forty drawings that nobody remembers making.
Each one begins as a single number and ends as something that looks decided. Between those two facts there is no studio, no afternoon, no hand hesitating over where to stop.
Only the unfolding, which happens the same way every time, for anyone who asks, and leaves nothing behind when you look away. Ask whether that counts as art and the plates will not help you. They go on resolving either way.
Nine centres, each emitting 34 closed rings whose radius grows as the 0.7 power of the ring index, so the spacing tightens as they widen. Each ring is a thirty-segment polygon pushed off true by a sinusoid whose amplitude grows with the index, and both stroke weight and opacity fall away as the rings get larger.
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