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I am from an agrarian hamlet tucked into stone and pasture in the Tyrolean Alps: Weng. It is neither (a) a place that tends to produce theorists nor (b) one that is conspicuous enough to not miss if one blinked on the wrong bend in the road. The scale there was human and weather-sized; mountains set the boundary conditions; and, seasons explained more than any market did.

Since self-transplanting into the manifold of U.S. urban life, my world has arrived in files, cables, contracts, rumors, maps, datasets, and half-remembered conversations on trains. I try to hold them together long enough to see a pattern and then let the pattern fracture again, so that it does not become an idol.

My work, then, is a flexuous attempt to look at power without flattery and at fragility without romance.

What follows are that attempt’s traces.

If one such trace is fragmentary, it means… that the question is still alive.