A scene is set – in infinite incarnations, in multiple places, at any given time. The optics are defined too – patient, timid and full of potential, yet in themselves idle and lacking intention. An automatic ocular device awaits its game, with a logic gate as its operator. Proper conditions are met, parameters are measured, no luminosity is tangible beside the entry point. Any conscious, intellectual sight will in a moment become redundant, as soon as the machine is set to motion and subjects itself to its own reflexes.
I start the program, open the curtain and let in the light.
The matrix is laid upon with a subtle, vivid hue. Its’ corporeal, enhancing potential is promising, radiating an aura of mild psychedelia. First outlined are the figures – then colors. The box appears empty, but it's full of substance produced by a dim luminance. Mucous machines diffuse the spectrum, crumbling it and digesting the matter. The paper is kneaded like dough, yet the formula and data remain even. Reflections multiply, then overwrite and reverberate repeatedly. A roomful of smoke and mirrors. Blissful, dissociated – it is probably right then that the proper trip begins. A flat muzak sneaks in, unnoticed, swaying the rhythm up and down and up again, tethered to the shutter's miscalculated clock. A confusing, nonsensical reality, that operates aside the common visual code, presents itself.
A mirage, upon mirage, upon mirage.
Technicolor is an insight into the industrialization of vision and the field operations of public pictures. It is a pensive glance into the ambience in a search for purpose and meaning of the background visual noise. These are photographs of photographs – ones that are long expired, displaced, self-determined or devoid of utilitarian value. A raw expression of pure visual substance.
