No.120. A Personal Architekton. There were times when the complexity of his life--a complexity he knew we all shared, albeit unwillingly--approached the realm of the unremittingly trivial. At times like these--which seemed more frequent lately--his hunger for solidity, for the elemental, became urgent and thus impossible to deny. During one of these bouts of need for the peace of the irreducible, he fetched a book about Kazimir Malevich from his library, and set about to construct his own version of one of Malevich's Architektons (1925-27)--nearly sculptural architectural models or, contrariwise, architectural models that were essentially sculpture. Malevich had made his out of plaster. He made this one out of wood, painted flat white. He had loved building it. The time of its making was the only stillness afforded him. As soon as the piece was completed, however, it was hurled into the hopper that democratically ingested everything else in the universe. What he needed--but couldn't attain--was a perpetual steadiness. And he had no idea where to find it.

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