What do we mean by consistency? I know some people are going to say: "Hey! That's Dan Flavin's act. Why in the hell is Irwin doing a Dan Flavin? Why is he suddenly so inconsistent – fluorescent one day and Cor-Ten the next?" The key to all of this is that we have to examples what we mean by consistency. And here the critical question is: "what do we use to measure consistency with?" If you measure consistency in terms of material, or gesture, then I will be found inconsistent. But, in all of the recent pieces and proposals, if you go to the actual site and look at it, you will find that the solution is absolutely consistent on the grounds within which it responds to its environment. This in turn is consistent with my development of the implications implicit in non-object art. Robert Irwin, Robert Irwin: A Conditional Art consistency
What's suitable for each unique condition What of machines and prefabrication? How do they compare? Well, the machine has its limits. We, using handcrafted methods, do things that machines cannot do. Of course, it's not fast like a machine. And in complicated areas like here, things wouldn't go the same using a machine as it would by hand. We use numerous variations of all these connecting and splicing joints. Using a machine, [the wood joints] can all be made uniform, but really, we need to consider whether that's a good thing. It's better to make each mechanism and joint by considering what's suitable for each unique condition. Akinori Abo, Kigumi House Chopped and disfigured contextmachinesconsistency
A Slow Boat to China A Short Story from The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami Can you even call it memory?Never any place I was meant to be
Can you even call it memory? My recall is a damn sight short of total. It’s so unreliable that I sometimes think I’m trying to prove something by it. But what would I be proving? Especially since inexactness is not exactly the sort of thing you can prove with any accuracy. Anyway—or rather, that being the case—my memory can be impressively iffy. I get things the wrong way around, fabrication filters into fact, sometimes my own eyewitness account interchanges with somebody else’s. At which point, can you even call it memory any more? memory
Never any place I was meant to be Supposing I found myself chasing another fly ball and ran head-on into a basketball backboard, supposing I woke up once again lying under an arbor with a baseball glove under my head, what words of wisdom could this man of thirty-odd years bring himself to utter? Maybe something like: This is no place for me. This was never any place I was meant to be. melancholywisdomage