The process of the melting of the ice block on which the projection is displayed changes the function of the whole object. It is a spectacle of sorts. It is not about creating any appearance of reality; rather, it is about devising a new way of communication.
A projection is the opposite of reality, the same way an artistic object is an antithesis of a ready-made one. It does not recreate nor imitate nor disseminate anything. It is a vain hope to expect that a delusion would lose some of its undesirable characteristics – that it would get closer to the truth, to “reality.” All attempts at integrating life with art are naïve: no reduction can make this delusion real. It may deform it, bring it a step closer to reality – but the delusion still remains, magnified even more as the new blocks of ice are brought in to replace the one that has melted.
I approach this delusion in a conventional way: I keep presenting it ad infinitum. It does not sanctify the events that take place; it only replays them, restoring the eternal present by linking together the countless, disproportionately short sequences of minutes and hours. The act of representation is a celebration in which our creativity is reborn. The act of repetition becomes a conception, an act of constant rebirth – just like each celebration of the Mass saves the world over and over again.
The idea of time understood as a permanent, ever-actual present is much older than the concept of chronometric time. The chronometric time does not capture the immediacy of the present – it only attempts to rationalize the passage of time; it just flows forward constantly, in an undistinguished way, without ever gaining any particular qualities. The external time ceases to be a form of spatial measure; it becomes the source, the ever-regenerating, pure present; it does not intend to impose any ideas upon us.
This work is not about fighting delusion, but about accepting it. The delusion is indestructible, and it manages to transport the reality to a different track, into another time. The repetition is the metaphysical context of illusion; it becomes almost a ritual. The process of repeating is a pretext, and perhaps “the essence of art.” An act condemned to nothingness renders the reality almost totally neutral and devoid of any moral status, either good or bad.
Chronometric time is replaced by another kind of time, one that is frozen, trapped; this kind of time is suddenly paralyzed, as paroxysms of past modifications come to an end. From now on, everything will be the same as it was before, and we will remain stuck in place, unable to make any changes – helplessly staring at the melting block of ice on which the last bits of reality still flicker.