MASSE CRITIQUE

Duration: 12 minutes

Unwittingly like a "lab assistant", I experiment, I try, I test...
For this project, I wanted to wittingly amplify that phase of my work by projecting an installation, which can be formalized like a biology experiment. I created this device, at the same time similar to a darkroom and to a magnifying glass, to observe a reaction by enlarging its shadow. The process is simple almost derisive.
I let drops of liquid fall on a circular surface. The liquids are interacting with each other. This interaction produces a string of events, a story of construction and destruction.
The film must be projected on the ground. The screen is a circle of sprinkled white powdered sugar. In that circle, the shadow of my hand is showing and the liquids accumulate.
Actors:
The hand ------------------------------------------H20
Liquid number I-----------------------------------H20
Liquid number 2------------ CH3-(CH2)n-COOH
Liquid number 3--------------------CH3-CH2-OH
I sliced my video into three acts.
During the first act, I let drop an expansive liquid very quickly. The rhythm of the failing drops yields a jerky pulsation. The liquid expands until its inhabits the whole circle.
During the second act, I let drop a fusional liquid slowly. It creates small circular entities, which float on the expansive liquid. Some entities merge together.
During the third act, I let drop an unstable liquid in tiny quantity. It invades the entities, they bubble up, struggle, "it is war", soon the entities dissolve and only speck debris remain.

For nuclear physics, the "critical mass" is the minimum quantity of fissionable matter needed for a spontaneous disintegration. Before that threshold is crossed, a ball of plutonium for instance is stable, but add an extra ounce of plutonium to that ball and R will disintegrate in an apocalyptic nuclear conflagration. I named the video "critical mass" for when the adding up of one ingredient crosses a threshold, the state of the liquid mass changes radically.

 

Copyright 1998, Evelyne Koeppel