A cosmic auditory resonates through the work of the two artists. One maker reclaims apparatus manufactured for the transmission of sound. The other takes sound, as it exists for him, and transforms it into the objectified line.

From a formal perspective, little connects them. Yet their physical formats contain a sense both of future and memory, of observation and recollection. It is as if, under the gaze of the viewer, they react as few artworks do. They communicate.

ACM is a pen name, acquired for and acknowledged by the artist’s closest circle. It denotes a practice, a private relationship. Yet the acronym serves to blur further his new archaeology. Like the work, the worker rebuts simple definition.

Dig and there is disclosure: a childhood, a family, an education. The artist’s way is warm, yet the words shield. Verbal language tightens the throat, so form is language enough. It speaks of rejection and refusal, of reclaim and re-use. Our senses complete these cities which are not. It is we who balance on the cheap white platforms. Creatures, perched above us, recall a forest invisible. The still air beneath holds bombs, macaws, memos and radio bands.

Modest fields of study fascinate Julius Bockelt. This performative penman consumes his daily surround to assemble a silence. Tiny packets of light-handed lines track precise observations of phenomena. They echo his interior. Bockelt-time is malleable, suspended, distorted and stratified. These, his analyses, abide by idiosyncratic principles. They embed and channel sense-memory. They turn the fleeting into ink on paper. We acknowledge art.

Bockelt’s performances add further evidence. Bubbles give birth, breathe and breed. Dust assembled spins in servitude. It is the artist as a god of small places. We read, we listen. The awkward magnificence verberates.