in conversation with Ben Trautman, architect, sculptor, public artist

Constructed of durable cardboard, the contraption is painted gold, an architecture
student’s puzzle, a final thesis. I hold it in my hands, look at its surface—bumpy, irregular, cubist. I’m curious. I cannot fathom what it is or what it does.
The structure is closed, contracted—a rough-cut diamond,
its ultimate refinements unimaginable—like my intentions, nestled
deep inside my mind, where even I can’t decipher them, unless
I dive in:

I’m told there’s a lever; it’s the key to opening the contraption.
I cannot find it because it’s camouflaged. The architect must
point three times—without his magic, I don’t see it or know its direction of operation.
Finally, I slide it tentatively—the parts begin to move, the structure expands. Only then,

I realize all the parts are interconnected.
The construction unfolds, revealing what’s inside—
I still don’t understand how the forms and shapes move synchronously.
The animated parts connect in unseen, remote ways—as with our earth—
hidden gears and hinges have created elusive relationships.

The lever I’m manipulating unfurls the structure,
enlarging the contraption’s presence, revealing complexity of design—
it’s fanciful, upending my imagination. A cupboard door lifts,
like only Renzo’s piano could, taking the lid off the contraption—
box-like rooms lose their ceilings. I can look inside now. I’m entranced.
Side doors of the boxes open. This gesture
reveals passages that connect compartments.
My gaze meanders along pathways.

Interiors now visible, the boxes complete their glide past one another,
then halt. My attention flows through the empty rooms.
They’re repetitive, redundant, devoid of inherent interest—I wonder
their purpose, and how I might inhabit them:
art studio, practice room, space for writing?

My imagination ignites; varied possibilities thrill me—
music, dance, Tai Chi, meditation?
poetry or prose?

I peer in—quiet
sanctuaries invite me

to rethink myself