Thursday, September 14, 2017

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Part VI

Chris Peters had her testicles removed in a Brooklyn apartment, 1956. She traveled to the city with some of her closest musical friends to seek out a professional private surgeon to perform this procedure called an orchiectomy. Many years later, it is absorbed into her identity and she portrays the cutting as a private and musical ritual. Barney only knows her when she has grey hair.

She visited him in Ohio today, and at night they went to the diner by the side of the lake. Who would have any relationship other than ambiguous with perch as a food? Yet, the dish was advertised on the metal motel sign. Their tires crunched on the gravel as they pulled into the parking lot, joining a couple other night trucks.

"You want to get a twelve-pack of deep-fried perch here?"

"Why not?"

Chris Peters (her last name is Vander Essence) had a mystical presence in her student Barney's work, seducing his deepest cortex with secret sounds that were enabled by her use of technology. When he was around her, he thought about every sound in a playful and deep way.

"Of course in the 50s all we had was shortwave radios, and yes, we did have one oscillator. It was provided by the science department of the Pastoral College. Because it was scientific, it went to radio frequencies."

Chris Peters was seeking the null pubis moment, as expressed in the computer language, lisp.

"My friend, Barney, he's dead now, had a huge beard, so he wasn't like you. We worked on programming some sounds in lisp... The interface is philosophical. I still use those sounds–they are like telecommunication."

The word telecommunication, whispered by Chris Peters' lips, in the context of experimental and radical music, had more than one meaning. Barney crunched on a perch tail. The sound was delightfully whistling high, almost crystalline, and particulate like sand. Chris Peters' eyes became dreamy, yearning for something beyond the future:

"I have an idea for a perfect instrument. It has one note, which it builds into chords... but it is this one note, like my oscillator in the 50s, that I can play from Tuba-Town to ultrasound. I call the organ my 'Mona see.'"

The perch meat was sweet and you had to pick through bones, but the greasy breading did its trick and it became a delightful midnight snack with Coke and white wine. Perfect to fortify one's self against the buffeting cold wind from the lake. When they stepped out of the diner, crossing the empty road, to stroll lakeward for a look. The melting ice floated around like asteroids in space.

The white blobs receded into the oily night. Out there in the darkness, all you could hear was the random crunching when one ice intersected another, and this sound receded too. The lake is mystical, and it's been cleaned enough to eat its perch again.

They drove up the lake road, through quiet houses and an empty town with its bright wastewater meth-flame.

"Let's drive by my friend Blanc's house. It might be trash night in his neighborhood; we could find some lighting fixtures or a couch."

It wasn't trash night. When they pulled up to Blanc's house by the lake, the womb-colored light was on and hovering over the kitchen table. They could see it through the bay windows.

Chris Peters whispered, "did you hear a rustling of leaves inside the house?"

Barney glanced at his friend, who could hear through the walls of a house. He believed her, and scanned the darkness in the house beyond the sole light: the shelves of painted shells, a burlap couch. There, behind the burlap couch stood a pile of tattered paper crepe, with a male form inside it, still but alive. The two friends sitting in a parked car felt a thrill at spying on this unknown activity.

Suddenly what was a camouflaged blob sped up and materialized in swat gear, dancing tactically towards the kitchen table.

"That's Blanc! He's up this late? I thought he was a morning person. I guess you can pick up shells and beach trash at any time of day and paint them."

Chris Peters snorted: "I wonder what kind of music he's listening to in there."

Through the bay window, they saw Blanc's face approach the cone of light at the kitchen table. He unstrapped a device from his pants' loin and grinned at it...



Somehow the two friends decided they would not walk up and knock on Blanc's door. They would instead wind their way back down the lake road. Chris Peters had a bottle of white wine in the car and she was cheerful in the night. She spoke more about her antique computer music samples, playing a game of singing them, and adding crunchy sounds where the digital code spoke.

Back at Barney's residency in the fields, he lied down on the couch, tired from driving but content with the company. Chris Peters explored the space inside the main lounge: "Is the station broadcasting right now?"

"No, but you can go in there and play. If you turn the light switch on, everything goes on and you can plug into the mixer which is the radio transmitter. Broadcast anything; it's late enough for free speech!"

She did for a while. Barney listened on one of the many testing radios: little bits of consumer receivers from the ages. His favorite was evidently a beach radio. It was soft and held batteries, and sounded warm like one's vacation expectations. Through this warmly compressed voice box, he heard her extreme sounds as new animals, and wondered what the corncob men thought as they received her transmission over early morning coffee:

"I think if I were a farmer, I'd think these sounds are from a satellite. Wonder what Blanc was doing, late night with no one in the house, hiding in that paper camouflage. I won't ever ask him, because then he will know that I spied on him in swat gear."

Chris Peters came back into the lounge and sat on a firmly upholstered chair. While Barney drifted to sleep, she plotted more about her Monassi, quietly sipping on white wine. Her cheeks were rosy; this was truly when and where she was most excited, late night with access to a radio station and her sounds:

"It's the ideal organ of the future... one sensor... well really as many sensors as there are in a chord.  Those are like all the nerves of the music, but it's all part of the One Touch. There's a knob for escalating and descending, that's it! It's like the one eye in the sky, one big socialist internet. Everyone is surveilled, including the president. You watch what he eats on Instagram, and read tweets of public policy. The Mona see..."

Barney, drifting off, tried to focus on his friends rant: "Do you mean the panopticon as a metaphor for your One Touch organ? How do you spell Monassi? M-O-N-A-S-S-I?"

"M-O-N-A S-E-E!" They both laughed.

"That clothing your friend was wearing... I liked his sudden change from amorphous to present. But what does it mean, alone at home, spied upon through bay windows? Wonder what he had in his pants? I thought you said he was a painter?"

"A painter of trash." Barney trailed out and snored sincerely.

I'd like to thank Daniel Fishkin for asking me to write this episode.
He was deeply affected by his teacher Maryanne Amacher, who was radical and perceptive. She also seemed to have secrets, like bass drums hidden in the walls of an old house. Also I was thinking about when someone gets older and how the tides of their creativity turn. It seems there is a certain age when you become playful again with everything, so I included the dorky imaginary organ, originally a "Vander Essence" theme, as an example of failing, but fun adventure.

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Part V

"The kind of artist who works at the beach has noise in their head," he muttered into his zither, as smoke curled out of the sound hole. Sunlight streamed in rays from the wooden planks that panel the radio shack walls. Quantus sat in there, with a silent cup of tea, not playing the zither, but periodically brushing a noise-tone from it: the chirp of the field-cricket, crackling of an Ohio cigar, the clang of war by sword. Here in the farmland, sounds are grains against silence–it reflects the emptiness of the landscape. Between every town, there is a deep cut that you cannot see until you are on top–the river valleys. They are like a piece, a flow of water with narrative, that pierce the regular sound-effecty silence of the land. The opposite of mountains, these pieces are invisible until you're in it.

The Black River flows downward to the ocean: an ocean of freshwater known as lake Erie. The waves lap sand here, and little beachfront towns totter on old sticks, a fence of houses around a rusty core of long-cooled steel. The steel mills recede into the landscape like ruins, and houses become only a fertile metallic patch in the pasture. Blanc deluded himself to be living at the ocean beach when he merely lived at the shores of a lake, albeit eerie and great; this false cognition was a source of bemusement to Quantus and the other members of the Ji Sect.

"Blanc moved to Northern Ohio in 2007," Quantus informed his zither. "He purchased a condominium in the Lorain, with large windows and a deck that leads over the dunes onto the beach. He likes to pick through the flotsam for shells, driftwood, and little rounded pieces of plastic, their origin erased by erosion. He moved his brushes and paints into the sandy basement of that house and works alone there, practicing only this: painting pastoral and maritime scenes on beach trash. He will host the Ji sect meeting tonight. I worry that our activities have violated his inculcation on webcams." Quantus ran his fingernails along the string to make a blaster sound. His long silk sleeve then brushed the zither, whispering harmonically.

That dog returned to the radio shack, fresh from sniffing the fields for somatic growths on cow dung. "Monkletto does not come to the meeting, as he is a downcast member of the sect–degraded. Bing Zi and the elves also do not come, since they are laymen–do they even exist? There are other members of the sect who set audio/video policy at this meeting, but it is important to focus on Blanc. I fear he will be lambasting the presence of media artists as an attraction to party-people." As a coda, Quantus made three disparate, woodworker like motions on his zither–knock, wobble, and twang.



It is night. The sound of crashing surf on the dock of Blanc's house: Quantus reviews his notes from the council's exhortation on webcams in the temple.

"But you have your paints, that is a medium!" Quantus had stammered at the heavy oak table. The council sat around it, exhausted from Blanc's exhortation on media art. A stained-glass dining lamp hung above the table, projecting warm colors of the womb on inhabitants: orange of flesh and red of the virgin umbilical blood.

"I am a medium artist and a beach programmer," Blanc declared. "There is a difference. I have eliminated the multiplicity that exists in media art, and boiled it down to the singular medium of pigment on shells."

"But you have your shells and bits of rounded plastic, are they your canvas?"

"Yes, they are the canvas, and paint is the medium. There is nothing else–no feed of vintage polaroid simulacra, DIY music videos, 8-bit art–the list never ends for media art. And furthermore, an exhibition of media art attracts an equally disparate crowd of party people, who distract from the message of our practice. They are degenerates, like Monkletto, who is not present here at the council table. I used to bring my computer to the beach..."

Quantus imagined Blanc sitting at the lagoon, watching ducks eat poop, with his laptop, coding. He couldn't help snorting, earmarking the transition to Blanc's beach-programming theme: "I would program microcontrollers to draw complex geometries with a felt-tip pen, and also do byte-beats. I thought the purity of the noise, and the salty wind in my scalp somehow made this practice holy and meditative.  I was in my twenties, and already tiring of the party-people who seek hypercolor art and computer music as a bed for their sociality. I realized, however, that I was only seeking noise, and the beach is the true source of that: a massive sound environment of crashing and gusting, and the erosion and entropy beneath our feet. I removed the computer from my dock, and now only scan the beach for flotsam, which I use as canvas: the ultimate artistic self-abasement as trash-man."

"You, Quantus," Blanc continued, "you have your zither–it is your medium; the canvas is the Honda Civic you use to transport it–is it connected to the internet? The reason why not is that you have chosen a palette of physical wood, wire, and circuits, as an extension of your practice as friendship bracelet weaver. I think you have quite successfully avoided the fracturing and social anarchy of the media artist..."

Later, over coffee and cake, the council-members either drifted off or sank into Blanc's overstuffed leather chairs, gazing at the display cases of beach trash painted in muted pigments: scenes of cows drinking from trout-water, an old iron lighthouse on the isthmus, rocky piers. Blanc seemed to be attracted to trash and dead animals that pervaded the lake–he studied the shape of fishkill washed up on the sand, their bodies mummified and contorted, then smoothed and streamlined by the blowing sand. Their hollow eyes allowed him dramatic shading for his paint set.

Meeting at Blanc's house on the lake was not unlike meeting at the Theosophical headquarters in Cleveland. The massive brick building also stood on the lake, had a giant oak table, and also warm womb-like lighting. However, the intimate and outskirted nature of Blanc's made it more like a retreat. On the dock, Parson comforted his friend Quantus. "here, artistic manifestoes can emerge from the oily blackness of the lake," he said touching his arm in the friendly way of a musician. The city, even a rusty one like Cleveland, brought a mediocre-media-arts audience to the Theosophical Society, which was not present at the small Ji sect council, and thus its members thus spake with such frankness.

In the next installment of "Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence,"
Do Bing Zi and the elves exist on the radio shack compound while the masters are at the lakeside retreat discussing audio/video policy? More noodle slurping and anus-darting.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

Tocante and Solar Sounders Workshop, Oberlin College

On the occasion of John Talbert's retirement from Oberlin College, the TIMARA dep't decided to celebrate his service to the aid of electronic and computer music. Tom Lopez phoned me and said he wanted to program the event with a wide variety of concerts, lectures, and workshops. Always on the hook for a visit to rural Ohio (seriously, I love the windy empty feeling in the fields, and the deep hidden rivers cut into the landscape), I proposed two workshops involving solar power. As he was my electronics and soldering teacher, I could really relate any project to John Talbert's original guidance. However, the tocante instruments and solar sounders are especially appropriate as the conservatory abhors strange tunings, and that it always seeks eco-musicality.

On two snowy days (3/2/17 and 3/3/17) we gathered in the SKYBAR which joins the older practice rooms and the high-newness jazz building. Mr. Talbert recommended the SKYBAR, and it did in fact have great light, acoustics, and work spaces. Twelve students built twelve tocantes, and the same amount built twelve solar sounders. The snow cleared the day after and we had clear skies to test the instruments and concertize with them.

I'm proud to be a member of TIMARA millenial faculty: (L to R) Aurie Hsu, Gary Lee Nelson, Lyn Goeringer, Peter Blasser, Tom Lopez, Joo Won Park, John Talbert, Julia Christensen, Peter Swendson. Not Pictured: Per Bloland
Opening the tocante presentation, I would lay the circuit boards out, along with cases, batteries and other stuff.
Then I might try to demonstrate scales and timbres while snow swirled the cupola.
Mister Talbert would distribute the precision strippers, nippers, and pliers.
Begin stripping one triplex wire and three duplices.
I'll show you how to tack the inductor and then whet under its feet.
John Talbert, circuit artist, teacher, and engineer.

The next day I rolled out a cart of capacitors for making our birds, monks, and trains.
Soldering, we used lead. Don't worry about it; musical instruments sequester lead, like the pipe organ, to speak Godly tones.
Elie and Patrick prepare solar sounder boxes.
A solar sounder having its capacitors installed, it becomes alive in time.
After a quick battery test, it is tethered to the sun by silicon for its life.
John Talbert, Travis Johns
Stacked solar sounders, color coding by Mary Lilith Fischer, who also took these pictures.

Saturday, February 18, 2017

Abiotic Probiotic by Petroleum Bottle

Had a dream, vis. the Soviet theory of abiotic petrogenesis @ Akademgorod.  Faced with the final, inevitable demise of oil reserves, U.S. hires a Soviet theorist to check the old theory that petroleum is not dinosaur bones but actually a natural process underground which only needs jump-starting.  To jump-start, I went to a now derelict derrick in the desert, and using the tube connection to deep underground, I poured in the $2 coffee I just bought, as well as the head of my best friend Daniel (he had two).  Several hundred years hence, when the derrick had receded into an underground chambre surrounded by expectant Soviet chemists, I addressed them: "What you see here is an experiment in petrogenesis.  I have poured my coffee and severed head of my best friend here into this well in the hopes that, without dinosaur corpses, we can kickstart the process of petrogenesis deep underground using the natural heat of the Earth's core."

Refer to: Rudolph Steiner's use of cow head in brewing probiotic wine...

Rainforest Airport

The 2014 proceedings of SEAMUS (Society for Electro-Acoustic Music in the United States), at Wesleyan University, offered several alternatives to traditional concert-hall diffusion of tape pieces.  One such alternative sought sonic contributions for an installation of David Tudor's Rainforest, in the sleek and modern Zelnick Pavilion.  The piece, simply, explores the resonances of found objects by exciting them with transducers, controlled by a multi-channel computer sound system.

Zelnick Pavilion is an interesting choice for sound installation.  The architects Robert Olson and Associates conceived of it to provide seamless accessibility between the two oldest, neighboring buildings, the Memorial Chapel and '92 Patricelli Theater.  Zelnick also serves as reception space and ticket-booth for the traditional concerts held there, and it hides air conditioning and other utilities for the buildings, thus linking them to a core of modernization.  Its function is immanent in its form; the pavilion lacks any sort of performance stage, theatrical equipment, or religious accoutrements, deferring these to the neighbors.  It has a wonderful, metallic tower that exists solely for elevator access to second floor of the chapel.  However, the space is useful in itself; the completely glass structure with generous eaves is full of even daylight, with arching columns and granite surfaces provide a decentralized art-space usually patronized by theses presentations and photography hangings.  
gothic chapel glass pavilion
The space is not unlike a mini airport in its angles, which jut out, reminding one of Dulles International in Chantilly, Virginia.  Our original plan for hanging the objects of Rainforest specified aircraft cable hung between the upper pylons of the space, with guy wires suspended down to the individual pieces.  The rigging material was quickly downgraded to nylon ropes and a series of temporary knots and wire ties that made the installation's aerial web into a postmodern (read eclectic, messy as if with manifesto, and finally, elements of home depot) visual element.  The objects were activated with various sounds during the couple days of SEAMUS, and at night, as "lobby music" for the formal concerts in the chapel.  It is often noted that David Tudor was an alcoholic, and the strong drink grappa featured heavily at Rainforest performances; coincidentally, the cash bar of SEAMUS inhabited Zelnick Pavillion along with the installation.
Rainforest in the airport-like pavilion.

Rainforest is a collection of found objects, each made into a loudspeaker by transducer.  Many of the objects have a resonant frequency, but this is not a universal condition; some have subtler spectra but louder non-linear noise, such as the gourd, whose seeds rattle at many frequencies.  Thus a Fourier analysis of the situation can be complemented by other sonic identities such as rhythm, space, noise.  My first foray into composing for Rainforest was a 24 channel Supercollider program that attempted to mimic the animal sounds of the jungle; it was a lyrical interpretation that did not rely on scientific analyses, rather it was to get the objects going with a variety of arbitrary birdsong. 


Memorial Chapel: Traditional Gothic Structure, Wind Organ.
How to approach composition for the midi organ: usually some approach is to play really fast stuff, unplayable by human. the console is interesting because it is cybernetic interface: the physical part of the organ is abstracted away and controlled at console, somewhat like Rainforest. There are two dimensions to controlling the organ: by stop and by note. There is a third, which is opening and closing expression shutters to control a little bit of dynamics. The pipes you see in front are diapason pipes, but hiding behind and in the shuttered chambers are a variety of timbres and voices.

Since the organ is played with air, and we are mentally porting rainforest to it, it is rainforest airport.
a paradoxical quest is how creativity is introduced into the endeavour; the rainforest installation was in close proximity to the chapel due to unique architecture of the complex, so a natural urge during installation process was to 'counterpoint' the installation and use the organ as part of it.  but what materials and how to port them?

  • the gestures of the supercollider tracks: undulations, pulses
  • idea of excitation signals
  • musicality, manually making music that works,
  • using resonances, difference tones between midi and the natural resonances derived...
  • exciting speaking tones, just the airy inception of each pipe.
  • playing the resonances as midi notes
  • a list of alcohols and liquors:

Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence @ Radio Shack, Parts III and IV


"Bing Zi eats noodles most loudly, but he does it away from the main table, sitting hunched like he's pooping.  It seems he thinks the sound of eating is vulgar and he is embarrassed by it as if it farts.  The elves and Cold Lake and the other traditional musicians, however, had much merriment at the great table that Quantus Barney provisioned with his simple monk's meal.  That is how we supped in anticipation for the great day of symbolic music ahead of us."

Monkletto
That night, Monkletto brought casks of wine and had arranged a delivery of feminine zithers, arched and clothed in silk.  The monk wishes his city friend would not visit him here, at the secluded transmitter, but he tolerated Monkletto's patronage and had the wine placed in the basement by the dog, and he put the kotos up in a rack above the transmitter.

As he was leaving, Monkletto prepared a black hole mouth and white noise eyes. He showed this to Bing Zi and the elves, who were tending the ceremonial fire in the courtyard.  The white noise eyes meant that Monkletto was to upset the Confucian orderliness of the ensemble with his debased and confused city ways; the black hole mouth meant they should wait for the right moment to wild out but until then, play lute and flute.

The pines grow well here because of the sand in the soil and the windy location.  The pines thrive on wind but my microphones do not; this is a thought in the monk's head.  Fortunately in the morning, it was bright out and quite still, and little birds chirped the air.  A perfect day for lutes, chimes and winds.  The visiting musicians played from dawn to dusk, with a break in between to get ice cream, kimchi, a hard premade bun, and chips whose bags have many morals.

The musicians made perfect music, in that mistakes were accommodated by improvised harmonization.  They were transmitted well by the 800 watt antenna that day, and I received it in my kitchen, cooking and sitting with my son.

That night, Monkletto arrived again as headlights approaching from far away in the fields.  When he crunched up the gravel driveway, Bing Zi and the elves were known to jump up.  Monkletto had brought women to play the kotos and the cask of wine was broken open.  Laughing in the firelight of the lodge, the women with jagged teeth first allowed the men to stroke their straight zithers, then commenced to play chirps and squeaks and also deeper bendy moans on their kotos.  Bing Zi and the elves were blowing lackadaisically on panpipes when some of the "lesser" women approached them and as was prescribed by Monkletto, these women were seduced. 

In the next installment of "Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence,"
What is the aftermath of Monkletto's debasing incision, especially in the receptive sensorium of the dog?  A note on the video practices of the overarching institution of the Temple.

Bing Zi and the elves were blowing lackadaisically on panpipes when some of the "lesser" women approached them and as was prescribed by Monkletto, these women were seduced.  While they were out in the courtyard bonking, Quantus Barney was playing "At The Watertower" on his zither.  The song's simple hot urban rhythm and funky harmonic effects wafted the courtyard the music of patchouli and other sonic desert scents.

His dog remembered a past life as a "desert dog," napping by day in the cool shade of a cistern, and prowling in the sagebrush at night for lizards, crickets.  At twilight, his master, a leathery human, came out in the courtyard, and with fallow glistening beady eyes, rubbing his crotch, on a lady, on a cactus, in a video still...

You see, Quantus Barney was documenting the whole "scenario" with the video cameras provided by the Temple that, of course, sponsored his residency at the transmitter.  The documenta was for his secred "monx-filez", a bunch of tapes labeled in sharpie with various mitigating quotes from the literature: "Andy Warhol- no touch monk", "Monks exercise every organ"...  He fast forwards the tape to the part where Monkletto is pointing his tongue to her anus.  It flits on the musk and she jumps like electricity but he pursues her with his triangle tongue.

Sensors and a discussion of microphony in the Pavilion
"The pavilion has a snake running from it to the radio shack, where various microphones are mixed into an ensemble for broadcast. "

When the monk plays alone, as often is the case, he puts his zither down on the resonant pine table inside the radio shack.  There he can sit for hours on a short stool, with a ceramic bowl of bitter tea by his sides.  He is playing alone in this shack because that is the proper way to play the zither, out here in the pines, where the corn-cob-pipe men grow corn and listen to his station, which tries to be virtuous, although all sorts of people do come through, even Monkletto and his women, which have much to offer the fine airwaves with their multiplicitous plucking and subtle singing close into the condensers, where farmers can hear their whistling breath and glottal wordage. 

The monk not only samples his favorite selections from the repertoire, but as part of his mandate from the temple, he is to discover new pieces and indeed new configurations of his zither in the secluded residence.  His dog knows that he puts wires inside his zither to pursue the CHAOS arts along with the speakers in the radio shack.  The wires bring out something unseen from the air, while the zither provides a physical basis, a body for the monk to work on.

Something is going on around the wood body, and the dog can only hear the ultrasonic result of this radio process.  It sounds like the bats which are cultured near the temple, but much louder and much more synthetic in tenor.

In the next installment of "Quantus Barney: Secluded Residence,"
The dog is gaseous and shaggy.  What is the power of the zither, and how to use it properly?  Monkletto scores as electronic music is used for torture and war.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

TARMATH NOTES

Hi Jeff, thanks so much for your neighborly help in my mathquest! I must say, I have no idea how to apply what you said about derivative of the square root and step-wise arc-length! I rely on tools like equation solver and Desmos to visualize and code these things. The Persian tar embodies two cardioid chambers. I found the Lemniscate of Gerono (LOG) on Wolfram and thought it would be usable. Now I realize I should have started with the polar form, but let me explain how I've been programming my CNC: by hacking. Every shape is churned through various empirical script-classes (Bot, Jacksloon, Okuda, Plumpott) that spend as much time thinking about woodworking as math.


 So I visualized the eight curve on Desmos and just tweaked it till I thought it was right. Turns out, I cut it and it feels great. I'll show you. I've been musing on luthiers who make big instruments and how it boils the whole art down to phallic magnification. I'm excited that this equation can represent the Persian tar as well as a comfortable laptop guitar shape in a diminutive form factor. Here's the desmos link: :it's the top equation, using the z slider to represent the different terraces. The essential LOG involves x squared and hypercubed as well as y in those exponents, but I also added x cubed to make the left side smaller than the right as in the tar.


I've always appreciated small instruments for the same reason I appreciate Miles Davis: you gotta be cool, and be boss. Bring a brass trumpet and summon your players to the jazz; bring a little synth and have a big sound. Although I applaud any friends who lift heavy weights for their art... A boxer does that too, but in the ring he's naked.



The third variable, Z, is the depth of the bit, so it traces a three dimensional, waisted and rounded shape. When I type it into equation solver (and I don't know how it does it) I can solve for y, in a very tight form: My first prototype cut great at the waist, in horizontal or diagonal waters. But the vertical segments should have precise and tight code because they are the end-grain and can hold fine woodwork. So I said, well then, instead of a left to right traversal, I want a spinner to cut the layers of this object. I attempted to substitute r*sin(t) for x and r*cos(t) for y and asked equation solver to solve for r, but the answer seems to go on forever: yield to stump.

One thing I thought of in the shower, was to do the waist in y's, and at the whim of an if..then (the hacking power of code doth insult the purity of math!) statement switch to the x solution and go up and down across the "butt" of the instrument. I conceive of the contour cuts in two separate parts, or regimes. First a planer rough cut, a terracing of the work piece. Then, a smoothing cut goes up and down in the z axis, and also should traverse the perimeter of the piece. It's a triangle wave that works so well from a woodworking standpoint. So I like it, but it is problematic without a polar representation.

So polar is the grail because the triangle wave could better follow the perimeter.


I got stumped trying to convert the equation to x and also to polar in radius. Turns out that it was the x cubed term that was screwing up the polar solution, or somehow spinning it out into an infinite series. I poked at removing it, and the equation simplifies well into polar with only the even powers: x and y, squared and hypercubed. The desmos graph without x cubed.

You said an artist wants to control his materials. I said I'm not an artist but you said I am. I said that I just listen to the equations when they want to tell me something. This equation seems to be telling me: release asymmetry, since it solves for radius so well:


BTW all the equation solves are by NUMBER EMPIRE"S EQUATION SOLVER>