N. John Soane
Let’s call this the poetics of unplanned deterministic erasure in a dynamical system.
There’s no conscious hand at work here. No hand at all, in fact. Atmospheric conditions have covered the canvas with a light layer of white. The lived-in world then acts on the canvas, gradually scratching away at the surface. A line here, a curve there, unknowingly etched by unaware actors innocently following vectors created by multiple fixed point attractors.
Beauty happens. It happens all the time. It happens over time. It just happens — without intent, without purpose, without witnesses, without meaning. It just happens. All the time. All the time.
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