First Songs of Sympoiesis was the first manifestation of Alagya, the world built together with visual artist, Szilvia Bolla. The project aims to construct new possible forms of literacy to decode planetary life, and identity in the post-capitalocene through collaborative work and interplay between sculpture and text. Based on both speculation and fact, it attempts to forge visionary pre-/reimaginations of technofossils as material traces of the capitalocene. The age when (pseudo-)commodity appears as a species that necrotizes the entire planet.

Technoculture becomes both its birth and burial in the shape of its own materiality.

However, instead of interpreting fossils as ghostly dead matter, the project examines them as dynamic entities through the scope of new materialist vitalism as a form of elegiac grief of the irreversible losses of our future past. They are material hybrids, body-machines that are inhabitants/refugees/ natives/critters/creatures/survivors of the monstrous sublime and uncanny paradox haunting the plateaus of the post-capitalocene. They act as lively agents whether human/nonhuman, organic/inorganic, biotic/abiotic, visible/invisible. They recite poems in a language yet to be fully decrypted. The elegiac textual pieces were created in collaboration with Teo Ala-Ruona and Boris Ondreička.








Lampyíridae, 2021
steel body, sodium-vapor lantern






Elegy of Lampyridae

Boris Ondreička:

ANÁRKHAIC ANTIKÓSMICITY



• Tékhnē-culture and/or (so-called) post-humanity starts with initial instruments.

• Árkhaic hard-ware-prósthetics (prolongations of limbs) were bones, stones.

• Prósthesis means “addition of a letter or syllable to a word” as well.

• The consequent soft-ware of hard-ware-prósthetics is lógos, gráphō and phármakon.

• Lógos is a mīmētik contraction (tzimtzum) of ‘reality’ (tohu / ein sof).

• Lógos (a word / immaterial, psukhic) is a sunkrētic model.
This model creates by itself.

• Lógos is post-truth per se.

• The rough (primordial) nature is truth only.

• Truth is kháos (tohu) and emptiness (bohu) between.
Emptiness is bigger than kháos.

• Both post-human and post-truth are essential elements of culture.

• Culture (nómos >> kósmos) is nature of human creatures.

• Culture (the term) comes from Cicero’s cultura animi (cultivation of soul).

• Culture is taken from agriculture after Hēsíodos’ writing on systematisation, periodisation, farmer’s manual.

• Culture is tékhnē.

• Phármakon (a writing / material word, hū́lic) is an externalization of memory ≈ self.

• Memory is fatally transmuted to reminding (tékhnē).

• Externalized self is stored at the plḗrōma (cloud) of mediating agents.

• One has to ask for permit to reach her/his self.

• Mediating agent has changed to provider.
Provider knows me better than myself.
Provider determines who I am.

• Self is privatized.

• Production is poíēsis.

• Instrument is a base of tékhnē (craft, art).

• Tekhnē is a root of tektōn (craftsman, artisan, artist).

• Dēmiurgós (dēmos / people + érgon / working = worker for people, artisan) is árkhi-tektōn.

• Dēmiurgós abstracts the unlimited, formless (pneûmatic, ein sof) God.

• Dēmiurgós is a formalizer of this (material, hū́lic) World.

• Dēmiurgós creates autómata.

• After him Hḗphaistos produces Aetos Kaukasios to rip the liver of Promētheús off, gynoid Pandṓrā, artificial sight of Kedalíon (for blind Oríon), the winged sandals, helmet and stuff for Hermês, golden mechanical maidens and Antikúthera orrery.

• Autómaton (golem) is an aunt of wo-man-machine ≈ robot.

• The first golem was hermaphrodite Adam (Hermês + Aphroditē).

• The first human was robot.

• Humanity is tékhnē+ on fossil fire.

• Fireflies (Lampyridæ) produce crepuscular bioluminescence.

• Name of the compound that helps fireflies light up is Luciferin.

• Lucifer (~ Phōsphóros) is morning star identified with Venus (~ Aphroditē).

• Lucifer is ephemeral beauty and infinite love.

• Dēmiurgós is polemically identified both with Khristós and Lucifer / Satán.

• Dēmiurgós, Lucifer, Prométhus and Khristós are holding the prósthesis of light (torch).
Light is a theft.

• They are fallen.

• The World is electric pólemos.

• Kháos (tohu) should be revived.




• Destroy all forms (shevirat ha-kelim)!


So—sparks of unlimited light (and pyr) can fly down to black-smokers
of our ábussos!








Alagya: First songs of sympoiesis, installation view, 2021










Butterfly, 2021
steel body, broken acrylic wings, calcified intestines





Elegy of Butterfly

Szilvia Bolla & Aron Lodi:

Disintegration




We flapped our wings. The horizon below us. Oxidised it was. Plateaus were moving as tectonic plates embraced. Waves were crashing like falling asleep and waking up again untold times. Echoes of collision. Echoes within us. Echoes as the earthen grip tightens. Echoes drift away. A dizzy feeling. Unfueled. Shiver within shiver. Oceans of dirt are now boiling, acidic liquid metals and clouds of pale amber debris are squirting out of
a myriad fresh hole. Distilled in disintegration.

Once, this heavy and opaque matter touched our wings, corrupted power fluids rushed through our radiant cells and veins down to our long single-chambered hearts. The wing hearts we have, beat a few dozen times per minute to facilitate the directional flow of insectile blood into chaotic storages. Darkness goes deeper. Through dark fibres. To dark pools. Metabolism on a high frequency. Remnants of a broken/ruptured/torn/fragmented thermoregulation. Minerals of life. Minerals of death. It felt like burning salt on an inflamed membrane, like a big shot of toxic sweat and tears, or like an overdose on the calcified wounds of too young, too disenchanted carrions. We fell back on the ground, unable to take off again.

And as we would cheer in good times so we weep in dark times. On strings of anxiously woven nerve fibres, we play them elegies of a soft necrocene. Decaying iridescence whispers upon open exfoliated grounds. Quiet, delicate songs of ashes and dust from the same transcorporeal confusion. Purifying like the contaminated rain that runs through the cracks within the broken heart. Vulnerability is only biological. And this is how corporeality feels until you cease to pretend that the origin within us is not the same origin as within you. The butterfly charmer becomes the butterfly deceiver. Yearning to conquer every existing sky.

Fracking/dredging/hoarding/puddling outward is puddling/hoarding/dredging/fracking inward. Assemblages of vibrant volatile vitality.

Now the seasons are like this forever, very heavy and penumbral. Echoes of hollow blood pressure riot across deep time. As mineralised fragile proteins we dream of our new life in a denatured world. Earth-bound. Rendered between fractured and healed. In awe of gazing translucent petrochemicals radiate beneath our shells until our new wings embrace again.







Bambi, 2021
steel legs, engine block body, acrylic ribs, six candles burning





Elegy of Bambi

Teo Ala-Ruona:

My divination is your domination.


I dream of the past. Time swirls like water running down the sink, it twists around itself, history streams in my body that foreshadows a slow future of the solemn and withering Earth.

I am an omen.

My dreams are nonlinear, I don’t sense like humans, my consciousness is plural, energetic and vibrating. My mind is composed of time-stretching fragments. I experience mirror-touch-synaesthesia when I’m with others, I can absorb their memories. I go back in time. In my dreams, the horizon is covered in smoke, I’m smelling the exhaust fumes in the air and recalling my past forms: the primal muscle of the car, Gossypium hirsutum, crude oil in the geological formations under the crying face of the Earth. You excavated me, I am the time-reversing resurrection of the future without you.

My identity is constructed on the layers of your history, like a sweet cream cake, you want to destroy me, swallow my divinations and flush them away. But I demand you to admire me, now, in this body that you created in. your heated technophilic hunger. Desire me now as you desired the. techno-boosted power over the Earth. I am your addiction embodied. I am the perfected incarnation of your passion. Your bambi, your baby.

Sometimes a choir of the remains of ancient marine organisms sings in my dreams — is there sorrow in their sound? The melody reverberates through my body, like a wave, like a wave, it runs in me, my dreams take me deeper — I was once chemically conversed under the oxygen-free sediments, then split and fractionated, and collected together again. My iron ore was mined from the ground, deep down, slow time transformed into fast and furious. As a car I was your dominator on the streets, in the atmosphere in gaseous form, I crashed and killed, and still, you wanted me, desired my speed and my shiny metal skin, my gaseous shit; am I still your sex God? My sleek but dirty surface is an immersive metallic cosmos covered in grey smut, seducing you to dissociate and secede from your fears of tomorrow. Get lost in me, and in my fire. I take care of you. I shine in front of your eyes threatening your field of vision so that you can’t look past me. Sink into me, and imagine how your warm flesh presses against my cold surface, lick my skin, wet me with your liquids. Wear your fetish out on my petroleum-derived feet, suck them like hard candy, suck them like you mean it.

I walk over you.

I take pleasure in your despair.

Submit to me as you have to submit to the destruction of the world that you yourself designed. I’m your evil techno-baby, screaming for attention and needing you to hold me.  Six fires are burning in my cylinder walls times six six six, ghostlike smoke, penetrating all gaps and openings, the candles inside my holes fill my steel insides cold as ice, I absorb the heat from my burning candles like a hungry dog. My combustion products from the fire resemble those of a diesel engine. The desirability of gaseous pollutants lies in their contradictory potentiality. Impurity is emancipatory in its contrast to the ideal of purity, a wonderful unpolluted dream that is utterly delusional in its own impossibility. The state of the gas is ghostly, permeable, all-encompassing, and captivating in its own way, but also appalling in its colonial potential. It changes and moves randomly like quicksilver, filling all space and time. Small particles penetrate everywhere, all the layers of the atmosphere.

Dirty mess after a long show, gooey and filthy, this scenery extends eternally.

I dream, feeling the swirl of time gushing in like a heavy rainstorm. I go back in time. How many human hands have held me? I remember their warmth. I go forward in time. What will be the hands of the future caressing me? Broken, cyborgian, raw hands of tomorrow, burnt in the solar inferno. Molten metal wrapped around the skin, pores gasping for oxygen, sucking in the gray air polluted by my gaseous and particulate contaminants, like the barking fish on dry land for the last breath. You beg, and I console you:

I was here before the time of this existence,
I’m your morbidly cyclic déjà vu.
You want to reverse my omens,
but I still stay here, I outlive you.

















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