Exhibits in the ‘The White Angel Working’ Gallery



 At what date did the western mind “stop”

the process by means of which crystalline mineral forms came into their natures as physis-instances of self-inductive growth? No doubt at the moment when thanatos itself blossomed in certain quarters as quintessentially petromorphic: without that black imagining, to rebirth as mineral were the achievement of eternity.

Every stone, but hath its angel. The angelic hierarchy, a cave of stones.

Not to reduce the image to one factor of its fascinating set of overlays: for stone is also dewdrop, or stopper drop, and the deliquescent substance maintained within the confines of the dewy membrane, a handsome gray-black vapor of carbon particles, no doubt comprises the hylic substrate for a figure neither menial nor masterly, but whose gesture prepares for its own crystalization as the amethyst, prefigured in the spiculated aura about his crown.

Of course the date per se of the denigration is of no particular pertinence, unless the entire of historical time be distracted, calibrated, and morphed into an astrological crystal
whose nodes, with some derision, read out as our impertinent calendric.- Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY


 The angel’s wings are samari sleeves, spiked and mounted to a stone background whose partial presence suggests a towering eminence that, curiously, is time herself, as time itself both recedes and comes forward, less and less legible as anything but a parameter in a fabric whose other dimensions are yet to be discerned. Only time will tell.

The samari, whose head and shoulder girdle appear imprinted on his very garment, cannot quite decide what species he belongs to (angelic species, that is, for his head is a temple, his moustache the roof of a portal, his comportment that of a guardian-not guardian angel, by any means-but welcoming: this angel initiates the thought that color, when sufficiently individuated and subtly selected from an appropriate electromagnetic palette, will serve as the inverse of its own opacity, its opacity, the mineral registery of time himself, the elevator in theTALLbuilding, whose basement is unfundable, whose attic is beyond release.

To exit from this architecture is to pass beyond all bodily things.- Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY


It is what Mr. Orpheus descried in his rear-view mirror. Consider this latter day transposition of the
Middle Pillar, the hierarchy of vertebrae, no hierarchy at all, for each is the office and the zone of an
entirely satisfactory transition through the Depository (the hylic substrate of the artist himself). No longer
housed in a mortal corpus, that is, but dispatched to an elsewhere, that can be glanced at, behind, and in
excess of the famous regimen, only in violation of which might it be glanced at all. What did Mr. Orpheus decry
in his rear-view mirror as he strutted magisterially away from Hades’ halls and palaces? Surely not his Eurydice.
More likely Hades himself, the content of a stony vessel, as if the repository of cosmetic powders (pre-solar
dusts and chondrules), if as Mr. Hades (pronounced Haids) – but there is no Hades himself (pronounced…

The vessel, whose contents is cosmos, is reflected in an object composed of silver particles, luminous, moonlit. But the chakras that organize the anarchic hierarchy of the diffragillating Depository (the hylic substrate of the artist himself) continue to pursue themselves thoroughly.

– Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY


Gate Soha

The White Angel’s Dark Twin Drinks Deeply

Footprints of a Passing Angel

Take Two Now and Call Us in the Morning

Diagnosis: Prosopognosia.

I will and I won’t. Imhotep don’t make house calls. But the consequence of trepanning is that the fluids that swell the cranium are relieved somewhat, the swelling that is. Something is wrong with the fusiform gyrus in the temporal lobes on both sides of my brain.

The guy that presents the placards on both sides of the entrance passageway is some kind of Hollywood thug or night club bouncer, skin-head big guy character actor.

The lover of Art is “straightened out” by means of brute threat. You are either in the club or you don’t get in. And if you don’t get in-there are nothing but beasts and attitudes teaming in the textures. It is a test. This is art, man. Not an inch of wiggle room.

The shifts in image content are discontinuous stagger gestures. It is this and then it is that. You cannot control them, or if you can, you fail the test.

Today, the pixel matrix withholds the pixeled images. Something wishes to direct our ocular intelligence along some not yet available passaging, The skrying stone is clouded. I do not see. A little horse at the end of the scepter. The figure of Horus barely emergent among the critical granules. The hawk’s head supplanted by a jumble of -can’t tell what the provenance.

Something is definitely wrong with my fusiform gyrus. I know who these people are supposed to look like but I take them to be imposters. No, doctor, you are not Imhotep at all, though you look just like him. When the sun arrives at dawn in his infinitely repetitive god bark, he too will be somebody else. And the raining yods or seeds from the great black sky. And The crystal moon. Their evident qualities are fraudulently evident. They do not seem to be what they seem to be. They can’t fool me. I’ve been their mental exegete far too long.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 16.05.08

Within a Thing There is Always Another Thing  (05/2008)

Plasmaphoresis (05/2008)

Goddess of the Melon Cactus

“And Thus the Room is Bigger than the House”

I must not stare in the woman’s eye. Why?

If I knew the answer to that, I’d be the woman herself,

in some other sense than that of course I am.

I am the woman into whose eye

I must not stare, (for too long anyway

Until, that is…lest I swear

some eternity has opened on the far side of selfhood, either hers or mine,

wherein we together dwell, to hell with “relationship’…

That there is a time or heaven or realm beyond the betrayal of the actual,

or of an actuality so rich and rare that it beggars all betrayal,

all exigency of departure or loss, all unforeseen “developments” …

I must not gaze in that woman’s eye,

but of course I do.

And if I do, the topology wherein the final iteration of an operation, that is to say the tenth one, displaces the darkness to which I have submitted,

I have invited my own absorption, by repeating in structure that which fascination claims in the manner of affect….

For the principles of measure shift with each iteration, each twist of event, and the series of self-containing chambers terminates in a cabinet –

various of ornament-poikila-elaborate-

iterates an intransitive topology

wherein a central cavern

encloses an original sky. Still…

And when the doors are opened

And I return to the image, darkly absorbing, without elaboration-

a simple overlay of occultations-a string of pearls with epigenetic foldings,

casual accessories decorate

an empty cyclopean chasm without an eye

A mask behind a mask

Chasm and cosm alternate

As I I must not allow

the darkness of an eye

to gaze at me

Of course every circle is intransitive. It is the strange application of periodicities that suborns reason and enhances to the degree of the marvelous our topologies:

But applied to time or “relationship” periodicity itself is peculiarly obscure, and the arhument from dimension fascinates but fails reveal. At all events, the image stared at or sworn to effects a condition wherein we are consumed where we would consume. The wretched belly, that introjects the world-Odysseus opines, ruins discourse

And Hesiod identifies appetite as Eros

The textures of this image do not initially invite iterations of the zoom device, but when applied, there does appear, an eye where at normative scale a black chasm is, and within the eye another eye, until the gaze regresses, and regress inverts, and the mutual penetration of optical intensities accessorize the matrix.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 16.06.08

Total Eclipse, 20-02-08

The orbital motion of multiple objects, a site from which to observe appearances, and the truth that we are far from resolving the issue of what a circle in time might be. These.

Isis in the form of a Buddha, sits in spectacular livery; her garments and her ambience absorbed in a matrix of small eye-flowers; at every node a way of seeing, at every node a way of being. Yet the spirit of Isis and the essence of Buddha are surely under eclipse when this multiplicity of perspectives rather than the silence of their light put themselves on sublunary exhibition. Then the fact of apparency itself is overwritten by the possibility of occultation, which of course is true; for occultation in this grand prospect is hardly limited to the special conjunctions of the sun and moon wherein the virginal silver light of the latter is enhanced or sullied by submergence in the terrestrial umbra. Apparency reigns throughout the entire orbital system and beyond.

Total Eclipse

This does nothing if not serve to mark the velleity that it is the symbolic resonance of phenomena rather than their occasional instantiation that draws or fails to draw the attendance of the blase population, satisfied to know that the thing has its explanation and that therefore the symbolism is in an adventitious take-it-or-leave-it mode. In the small Pennsylvania city from which we viewed the episode, we were to all appearances, the only mortals interested in the occasion. Even the winter birds had other exigencies to occupy them. One of us was so exercised by the obliviousness of the general populace that he threatened to compose one of his inimitable missives to the local weekly, expressing god knows what irritation and outrage.

The explanations available on line, however, do not so much as raise the question of the true nature of periodicity, or the relative apparent diameters of the two celestial objects (more pertinent to solar than lunar eclipses, it is true, but which surely come to mind on these occasions also). Heraclitus says that the diameter of the sun is the size of a man’s foot, exercised as he was by the triviality of his contemporaries’ cognitive preoccupations.

And it is not even in evidence what the symbolism might be, were the general populace of a mind to attend to it. “O might the sun and the moonlight seem / One inextricable beam / For if I triumph I must make men mad,” croons Yeats, if I remember it rightly. Under such conditions, it is symbolism itself that toggles between the exaggeration that mistakes fascination for singularity, and the more canny inverse attitude that finds itself fascinated by the singular. For the singular does not function by the enforcement of any symbolism; quite the contrary. But to toggle is not to run in circles, and at all events, the Buddha’s Isis body is but an outline among the stars.
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 22.02.08

Memory of an Elephant

Memory’s Elephant

I was somewhat perplexed by the allusion of the title for this image to the commonplace that pachyderms never forget, until I realized the allusion was not to this unsupportable generality but to the elephantine phenomenology which, were such a generality supportable, would have to be elicited to support it. A speculation, that is to say, on the form of the elephantine consciousness per se. The evidence for this is initially negative: the absence of any allusion at all to the elephantine proboscis, to its ivories, to its magisterially lumbering gait or legendary burial grounds. It is certain therefore that we have entered upon something uncommonly under occultation,
secreted beneath the original commonplace.

It thus would seem that the elephant teaches an essence of the memorial, not because it possesses some preternatural capacity for mere recollection, but because the elephant itself is of the memory. As in the verses:

“Memory’s red city
is a prop.

“Though you are rich and old;
though you keep excellent white dogs;

you are also
of the memory.”

The color of the elephant’s memory seizes the human soul once its atmosphere suffuses inspection.

Unlike the human infant that comes equipped with the capacity to recognize its mother’s face as a face before it has any knowledge of its own; the image of what would seem at first glance to occupy the site of an elephantine countenance is clearly an internal model of something else-some internal space special to the elephant, say, over which spatial configurations appear in special variants-the a priori of the elephant world distributing its phenomena, thusly.

Against a startling mantle. A murky brown black collar-like thing, so that the bat moth bull and Chinese madame thing-the thing with narrow blue eyes-the thing with plumes and sequins and interior compacts with other beastial things-lays in against an ominous absorbing emitting irrefutable ground. What all our crimes denounce sustains this memory and its variants.

Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 30.04.08

When we are young, and when we are old, Love makes Time stand still (06/2008)

Abiding Angeloi

Time falls away. Yet fall into time thus fallen, and all that the fulgurations of apparent being allow to seem to be, happens in the “vessel,” so prepared. Apart from such an operation, interventions avail not. Manipulations, successfully executed or adrift in random errancy, avail


Still, to don a god’s robes, the management of scale behooves. Hieratic actions organize the Brownian gnats that fill the summer haze with teeming virtualities-the boomerangs and cluster bombs of outrageous fortune, relieved at whatever site in the circle of thralldom thralldom assigns-availeth


White angels reprove the whiteness. Black angels grow still in the night.


It has appeared that the crisis is thus: the distinction between the disjunction of contradictories and the pseudo-disjunction of contraries. But on which side of the distinction falls this distinction? As in: just which side of the mirror are you on?


It cannot be said that the miniscule operator of the ceremonial machinery, apparently lodged in the cabin up top the leafy collars and donning the officiant’s crown, possesses an unequivocal destiny-for another officiant foils the first-ignoring him or displacing him so that his figure reduces to an element in the matter over which the New Man claims hegemony.


Once time falls away or the Hiereus himself falls (or elevates) into transcendental time, the entire spectral community-the vast wealth of apparencies-does not so much cease to function, as fail to further enthrall the released practitioner; angelic squadrons flash across the blood, cuts and slashes notwithstanding. Action instantaneously inverts. The neutralized doublets dance into a green irrelevancy.


And when the scalars shift, the blind Hiereus beholds the empty womb of all that seems- and that directly-sans machinery, sans all machination. The impertinence of process clean undone. The Will-to-World-unmediated absolutely. Thus the priest with an eye patch over each of his eyes; elephantine ears; in front of his breast, a murky diamond compressed into an exo-spine, stabbing the matrix.


Each operation essentializes finality. And yet, it can be said, that given how mundane time and transcendental time show not a Planck’s length difference; each operation affords infallible sequellae. Black angels fly into the light. White ones flutter at eventide. And the time to flutter and fly

forever bides its…
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 13.08.08
(Note: The text & the image were independently & simultaneously produced) 

“Good-bye Ruby Tuesday”

Outline and shadow. And all the gradations of focus and articulation in a continuum that suggests pseudo-photographs of extra-galactic-cluster space depths-fantastic displays from radio frequencies in excess of the audio/visual, far in excess of the audio/visual, dumped down onto the audio/visual, just as hyperdimensional spaces can also be dumped down onto four- or three- or two- dimensional surfaces. All that exists in apparency can yield its information on a line shorter than the Planck length.

One senses that in general, the asiderials, if that is what they still may be referred to as, are in each case the dump of information from some indenumerable phase space, whose rules no sooner than formulated, generate their own excess, and by some peculiar frenetic jiggling of the local photo-digital apparatus, are forced to present themselves, on humbly articulate screens-as if the higher regions of the transfinite had the largesse to stoop, like the body of Nuit, to make themselves or herselves, open to our fascination. No danger that their essences are betrayed here. Scratches in a cloud chamber. Noises in the wall. Intimations of the inaccessible. Infinitely receding phantasms of the absolute.

So here, there are coils of light and luminous dots that have not bothered to bring themselves into sharp focus, and casual spicules, closed superstrings, why not? They seem to mumble-and the trace of that central channel, middle pillar, articulate in previous asiderial productions, now but gesture towards or from emblemalities and realities previously and ever-so-transiently imagined to have been realized.

But the shadows that background these scattered articulations, show ever-more prescient variations; as if each formulated darkness, through the very absence of manifestation, nevertheless were swollen with further withholdings to come. It is an elegant strategy to keep the channels open under conditions where the metaphorics of channeling itself blatantly have crashed and are woefully dysfunctional. O well, says-and is it none other than our old-acquaintance-not-forgot whose initials pretend to be DL who pretends to speak here?-“O well, if I cannot sing myself, I still may offer an infinitely resonant valediction, whose tonalities continue to manifest rubeous-ly indeed.”
Charles Stein, Barrytown, NY, 23.02.08

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