1a-3b DEATH MACHINES

or "art gallery in the shitty future"

1a "Untitled"

Walk with me now. This exhibition has resonated particularly strongly with our guests over the past few weeks, and according to many it demonstrates all too poignantly the fragility of the human soul – while also stating defiantly its resilience. As you traverse this hallway, regard the mind as a sea, complete with both the encompassing panoramic beauty and the potential for senseless destruction. Every one of us has known pain, and I’m certain we have all had days where it seemed we could not go on – these are our short forays into the ocean’s depths, little glimpses to sate our curiosity before air runs low and pressure mounts high, and we are forced back to the surface. Today, though, we travel deeper. Today, I invite you to gaze through the eyes of men who spent months, years, perhaps even lifetimes submerged down there. Artists who reached caverns so low and lightless they found themselves unable to ever again reach the surface, or – who’s to say? – perhaps even acclimatised. Some do choose to stay down there, for reasons us ordinary folk may never understand – it is to these people that we dedicate today.

Tali Faulkner is a name that I hazard most of you have heard, though some of course have not. It is my great honour to welcome you to our exhibition today, dedicated to the memory of perhaps the single most unique and enigmatic artist of recent years. Faulkner cannot in good faith be called anything short of a genius, albeit not one easily understood; his mind operated with a scarcely seen mix of mathematical aptitude and hypnagogic creativity, and we will soon see the life-affirming wonders he was capable of creating – and the remarkable tragedy of a lifetime spent in those lightless trenches.

And though this exhibition exists to honour these great departed artists and admire the intricacy of their works, we find it of equal importance to acknowledge certain perhaps unpleasant truths inextricably tied to them. Had Faulkner turned his mind to helping the world, we can but imagine what marvels he might have blessed us with. We do not place blame on him for neglecting this path, but it does undeniably frustrate – enrage, even – to know that the ocean’s surface, and with it a brighter dawn for our world at large, was so close at hand, had he only the will to swim.

So I invite you in! The works scattered throughout this corridor paint a harrowing picture of Tali Faulkner’s life, one we are confident is the most thorough made to date. Look upon his works, and marvel at their beauty. Look upon his works, and despair at what could have been.

Before you stands the earliest Faulkner piece we have been able to recover, and even if you do not yet understand what you look upon we are certain you can appreciate the elegance of its construction. This machine is as tall as its designer, and filled top to bottom with a painstakingly engineered series of cogs and axles, all endlessly rotating to move the exterior beams into this series of intricate patterns. The optical illusion created gives a remarkably vivid impression of what we call fractals, mathematical patterns characterised by repetition on both a macro- and microscopic scale. Particularly fascinating is that these shapes are not confined to dusty old textbooks, but a frequent occurrence in the natural world – examples include island coastlines that grow to paradoxically near-infinite length when measured at an extreme degree of precision, and – particularly pertinent here – the leaves of the now-deceased Tāne Mahuta, a once sacred site in the ancestral traditions of Faulkner’s native people.

One of Faulkner’s many unnamed pieces, entire books have been dedicated to the unbelievable engineering required to make this machine function – and though we won’t bore you with the scientific details, hardcover copies of Smithson’s widely lauded thesis on the topic are available in the gift shop for anyone interested. What we will gladly focus on is the details present in the artistry; I do not doubt you have already noticed the specific choice of metals Faulkner made here, and to create a veritable fireworks display of such immeasurable beauty yet still choose to render it in rusty, misshapen iron strikes us all as bizarre. Perhaps Faulkner bids we contemplate the very notions of beauty that bring us to museums like this, and could we protest? Would this genuine miracle of our natural world really seem prettier to us if it were rendered in superficially more aesthetic, perfectly polished platinum? Scholars have not yet reached a consensus here; you are free to speculate and interpret however you please.

In this chronology of art – and with it the biography we are slowly building– this is a particularly important piece. It is often said that the unifying factor of Faulkner’s works is a rot of sorts, a black stain that pervades each of his works to their very core. If that exists here, it has not yet been identified – this is, perhaps, the only known Faulkner piece to bask in the light of the sun; the only one that predates his terrible – and ultimately permanent – sojourn into the depths.

1b you are the WELL-DRESSED MAN WITH THE GLASSY STARE STANDING NEAR THE BACK

That doesn’t sound right.

You glance around, take a moment to gauge the reaction of your compatriots. They all seem taken by the exhibition, staring as if spellbound at its many crisscrossing lines and the psychedelic patterns they together form. When your eyes meet those of the smiling Curator you avert them quickly, hoping he didn’t see the indignant streak that’s definitely entered your face. He’s only doing his job, and there’s no virtue in making it harder for him.

Still, he’s wrong. This piece did come from Tali’s early years, indeed the ones he spent as one of your classmates in high school – though you have no doubt he’d have wiped the whole ordeal from his memory given half a chance. That’s the Tali you conjure now in your head, complete with the always-tattered right sleeve and pale, permanently malnourished face. He never really had friends, and in all honesty most of the blame for that rests with you, your gang’s insistence on tormenting him day in day out. Punches to the stomach, taking what little food he’d scrounged together for the day… You can’t help but wonder what part you played in driving him onto this path.

So he’d go home bruised and starving, and with no football team to join or console to boot up you’d heard he'd… explore, and whether that was in the real world didn’t matter. He could lose himself in his imagination for days at a time, and for all you mocked them back then you still remember the feverish schematics he’d scribble out during class. This machine here? He’d built it from scavenged metal from the landfill on the shallow side of Lake Omapere. Maybe he’d have done it like this anyway – but he was working with what he had.

The squeak of leather-clad feet on polished wooden floor brings you back to the present. The last few snatches of conversation have died out, and the Curator looks eager to move you all on. With a sweep of the hand, he continues:

2a “THE DEATH MACHINE”

Those of you who came here with existing knowledge of Faulkner will find this next exhibit far more familiar. Speak of him how you will, but he did not withhold long the morbid twists you are here for! Faulkner’s second machine was constructed after he had already received widespread recognition for the first, which would prove at once a blessing and a curse – on one hand he had more resources to work with than he could have dreamed, but conversely his ambitions remained somewhat tempered by mounting public expectation and pressure. An artist’s second work in the public eye is most of the time the one that tells us the most about them: Will they attempt to capitalise off their newfound fame, rush the work and make money? Decide their legacy is complete and vanish entirely? Or like a select few, Faulkner included, find an entirely new path…

This contraption too, requires some explanation. You look now upon “THE DEATH MACHINE” - and do note the implication of the definitive article, as clear of a suggestion as we will get that Faulkner never intended the series to spiral out in the way it did.

Already many of you seem disquieted. If this stems from the contraption’s admittedly sinister coffin-like appearance, then I’m afraid all I can do is confirm your fears. The Death Machine activates upon an electrical signal sent by the pressure plate built into the back of its “bed”, at which point it will swiftly rip its victim apart via a series of surgical scalpels and blades hidden within the framework. Then – in a truly ingenious feat of efficacy and craftsmanship – these implements become the pivots that will first break apart the ribcage, then create from the bone shards a moving fractal pattern similar to the one we saw before.

This piece is, as I’m sure you’ve noted, perplexing. By this point Faulkner had made of himself a recognised and by some reports even affluent artist, so it remains a mystery why it was here that his works transitioned from wondrous and life-affirming to moribund. The ocean’s surface had never before gleamed so brightly above him, and a thousand sets of open arms doubtless waited to lift him out. That he showed no interest in the offer invites confusion, judgement even, but I urge you to maintain your compassion in the face of it – and if any among you understand what might drive a man to stay there as he did, I extend mine to you as well.

Many report feeling a grim allure when near the Death Machine, an inexplicable desire to see it in action. We would not deny the opportunity to those inclined among you – and though the demonstration will of course use a mannequin, to preserve the effect and integrity of the piece we have procured a genuine human ribcage, generously donated by the University of Auckland’s medical department. If you do not wish to see what happens next, I ask that you avert your eyes now – and for the rest of you, the first ever public demonstration of Faulkner’s earliest Death Machine will commence in three… two… one…

2b you are the WEEPY MIDDLE AGED WOMAN DRESSED IN BLACK STOOD AT THE FRONT

A collective gasp rises from those who still watch as the mannequin’s uncanny pinkish exterior is torn apart in a single motion, a brutal implosion that can’t help but evoke the splattering blood and guts of a real execution. The bones inside are sickly yellow, peppered with dirt specks that all too strongly highlight their authenticity. When the Curator asked the squeamish to turn away, you tried – but your eyes were glued to that thing, taking in every detail of the inhuman act it had been created to commit. A machine made with the vilest of hatred.

But he’d always seemed so… normal! He came into the office every day and made small talk just like everyone else, a quick remark about some Māori ritual he’d attended or request for volunteers to help him clean up Tauranga Beach after work (no one ever did). Were it not for his name he’d barely have made an impression – quiet, a little on the hippie side, but ultimately forgotten as soon as you sat down and opened your spreadsheets.

But he was Tali Faulkner and everyone knew about his first machine, so he’d spend long portions of the workday being interrogated about his next big project. He took to the games quickly, and soon enough he was dancing around the answers with a cunning glint in his eyes, giving you all just enough to swoop down like vultures on every new detail. He’d string you along for weeks at a time before the pressure mounted too high, and you all but forced him to provide a hint.

So how could he have meant… this? Could it be what the Curator said, that he spent so long in the murky sea he lost his mind, then got so used to it no one even noticed there was something wrong? He could’ve been the happiest man in the office, flaunted his riches and got himself a lady and settled into a life plenty of men his age would kill for. How could someone have all that laid out before them, and decide they prefer… Death machines?

As you move towards the next exhibit, your dread deepens.

3a “RED SKY”

The next machine we come to is, thankfully, not one that Faulkner ever actually created, though judging by the amount of detail he included in the schematics, he wanted to make it absolutely clear that he could have. The papers you see here – and feel free to linger, it will be a while before you can grasp it all – together form a frighteningly plausible set of instructions one might use to end the world, had they the means and inclination. For obvious reasons both moral and practical we cannot delve into particulars, but it broadly involves a series of makeshift nuclear detonations targeted at very specific points on the floor of the Pacific Ocean, resulting in a radioactive fallout and disruption of global weather systems on a potentially apocalyptic scale. Scientific opinion on whether this would actually work remains divided, but to this day no one has provided satisfactory proof to the contrary.

Naturally, this has proved Faulkner’s most enduring and fascinating piece to admirers of his engineering, but the last few diagrams pose a particular interest to connoisseurs of his art. This remains the only place where Faulkner took the time to actually depict the imagined fallout of his invention, though much of the detail is regrettably lost to obsessive scribbling and endless self-correction. What we can make out – if you would look past what I can only describe as a crimson monolith on the left there – appears to show the earth’s crust splitting open to reveal… What else? More fractals.

The final exhibit of the four tends to be… Difficult, for people. But before we go on I would like to take a moment to thank you for joining me today – you will become acquainted with many other artists and works over the next few hours, but on a personal note I have always found it a pity that Faulkner – in my opinion the most enigmatic and interesting of them all – is placed at the beginning of the tour. If we believe the reports of his friends, and quite contrary to the impression the last thirty minutes might have left you, Faulkner did not act out of the ordinary in his personal life, and that someone could hide so well the darkness within them while they worked an office job by day and drank in bars by night, all the while engineering machines that could kill untold millions? The story enchants, to say the least.

We have spoken a lot, today, about proverbial oceans of the human psyche – depression, schizophrenia, whatever other name modern science might give them. We have meditated on why someone might choose to stay down there instead of taking any of the myriad ways out available in today’s society, and I truly do hope you have found the experience enriching. As we proceed to Faulkner’s last piece, I would like to propose my own explanation: That light and dark, and good and evil, are but sides of a coin, and that our departed artisan knew this. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with Faulkner at all – perhaps he delved into those seas and found in them something so beautiful and so full of meaning that he felt no need to ever come back up. What could that have been? Our answer, I suspect, involves fractals.

3b you are the SURLY FIREHAIRED TEENAGER STOOD AT THE BACK, FACE FIXED IN AN EXPRESSION OF UNABASHED DISGUST

How dare you.

How fucking dare you.

Your fists tighten, your breath shakes, and it’s all you can do not to scream it all out as your eyes whirl back to the entrance, read again and again the embossed gold AUCKLAND CULTURAL MUSEUM sign you hate. You wheel back to the crowd, listen to them talk about Tali with fascination and intrigue, cautious and dreamy and utterly sickening. They stare at a dead man’s work like it’s some quaint little dollhouse, wonder why in the world he would have chosen to stay miserable instead of just… being happy. Utter bullshit.

It's all you can do to not pull out your key and stab the Curator’s eye out with it, right then and there. He’s one of them – one of the government people who let toxic waste pile up on the shores of Omapere until Tali’s hometown was nigh unliveable, who created the dump that probably gave him countless horrific diseases as he sifted through it, desperately searching for a way to escape this stupid country. And after all that, this man still had the gall to suggest it was a choice to build his first machine out of shitty, bent metal!

A machine to end the world. For Tali and his people, that day had come and gone long ago – it was the day new legislation was passed and the miners were allowed onto his ancestral land. And corporations don’t care for biosecurity, so foreign workers brought foreign disease and in mere weeks a two-thousand-year-old tree had been turned into a rotting, lifeless husk. A machine to end the world – this is all of you! Every one of the bastards who killed his god!

You still remember that last conversation. A few months ago, a dingy little punk bar on the edge of town. Utterly filthy, deafening music, shitty beer, but it felt like home. He was there most nights and you’d speak to him every chance you got, and by this point you’d covered everything from the best Godspeed You! Black Emperor album to the best way to kickstart a revolution. He’d even joined you for a protest once, to that latter end. Shouts and chants and big rude banners. Burning bins on election night. Pointless vandalism, yeah – but it felt good.

So you’re probably the only one who ever knew what he’d been planning, the grand finale he’d spent years setting up. Only you know that this was supposed to be it. That this was supposed to mean something.

As conversations die down and the crowd moves towards the last exhibit, you leave the hall without looking back. You don't want to see his final piece. You know exactly what it is.

A squat metal box with none of the grace or elegance of his other machines. A small opening, just big enough for a person to place their head inside, and have it crushed.

You don’t want to know whether they wiped off the blood before bringing it here.