There's a Chinese man, perhaps in his 80s, who walks around downtown. Slightly built, the Large Glass is an elaborate trip to nowhere: not only is the erotic encounter between motorized bride and mechanical bachelors never consummated, the apparatuses themselves have no rational program. What then could the machine possibly mean to Marcel Duchamp? The answer to this question lies in the relationship between Duchamp's mechanistic idiom and a dense network with a long jaw that usually hangs open. He wears headphones and mumbles to himself:

Mountain peaks have become skyscrapers, trees private homes, ancient trails are highways,

but nothing's lost.

     There is no turning into,
          only turning


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