Essay for The Pluralist, 2020
Issue 3

Here we stand. Here in this cylinder—or in the mouth, even. Or in the throat. Or to be more specific, we are in a panopticon—its tall, engulfing stature built to track each part of a glistening, corporeal labyrinth. The walls wind up around a circular screen below. The screen takes a vertical view; images made with an endoscopic camera take us down through the otherwise hidden interior of the body simulating the fall into an abyss of examination. But magnified. So where are we now? Perhaps reaching the stomach. Or rather, we are in an endless flow of pure, bodily matter—an enlarged, messy and irreversible journey—framed in a white cylinder.

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