Reece York


“There are as many cubes as there are observers constructing cubes. And when you look away
your cube ceases to be... The probability that any of our perceptions match the structure of
reality are zero.”
- Donald D. Hoffman

The building ages through time at irregular intervals. Ceiling fans are removed, air conditioners get installed for the first time, the walls get plastered, get painted over, the wallpaper comes off, again, there’s a resurgence in exposed brick. A new staircase creates a steady flow of carpet stains and third generation torn jeans. A lift grants access to a cement encrusted glass jar with a pre-market handle welded to it; bought in an upmarket London homewares store with a Naples street value of five cents.

Manageable phases of renovation cycle through administrative solutions. Mesocycles of paper shredding, redactions, official documents burnt, people tossed out of the building. The blood gets washed away. Hay is swept out onto the street from a Cafe. Spiritual awakening occurs on the floor above.

The past becomes more understandable, intelligible, and meaningful based on the tenants’ conception of how Panpsychist the building is. The structure often doubles as a self-aware printing press, open-heart surgery clinic, Jurassic Park film set, construction site toilet block, community art centre, checkout counter, Euthanasia holding pen, trusted Spar, and checkout encounter larp…

The new owners become aware of all levels of material culture. Their doubt is retroactively measured through a strata of fecal matter in illegal septic tanks. Selves, others, objects, entities, spirits, gods and software merge into matter and mind variably according to contemplations of base reality. Someone on the second floor takes their big toe off the trigger. A baby eventually gets thrown out with the bath water.

Now, the facade tries to reimagine itself every forty years based upon the prevailing notions of “periodisation” at the time. The entire building ponders demolishing itself due to the psychological state of the city and the State is in a coma. The backyard is a bloodbath. Concrete floors sporadically tune in, turn off and drop out, revealing huge gaps in the housing crisis. One thousand square meters of reinforced concrete semi-consciously displace fifteen families and some tenants make stuff to eat, some tenants eat to make stuff.