Monique Jean’s black thread terminates at a portal to the outside where an industrial tableau of gears, pulleys, springs, turbines, belts, and steam materializes. Here, in this world, natural organic life is sidelined. It’s there, somehow, subsisting in this place, in the margins, but look around; it’s all machine. Running hot during the day, cooler at night, this machine is self-replicating. An elevated viewpoint might expose its borders, but the borders are forever expanding. The viewpoint will be subsumed quickly. This machine breathes itself forward in all directions and upward until land is no more, life is no more, and atmosphere is swapped out for mech. Purpose forgotten, here, God is blacksmith. […]