A camera records a plant placed in front of a monitor with a digital, 3D landscape of moving mountain. The camera transmits the image to another computer with artificial intelligence facial-recognition software. Shadows of an artificial landscape and natural plants cause perpetual software glitches, that is, frequent identifications of the human face where there is none. Each “identification” results in a change in sound: a green square appears where the software determined “face recognition”, the number of “identified” on the screen and each identification is accompanied with a sound. The following segment is linked to rotating moss placed on a table, which is being filmed, and this image is broadcasts on a screen with photoresistors, which measure light intensity at the points where they are glued on and where they change the intensity of the current on the lamps above the moss. Thus, the moss determines the amount of light for photosynthesis, i.e., the moss is living its own projection. Its survival depends on its digital, screen image. A similar thing is happening in the next segment – potentiometers read the light intensity of the digital landscape image and in accordance with this information there is a change of current and light intensity of the lamps that illuminate a plastic container with water in which the interaction of carbon dioxide and variable light will produce algae.

A huge white screen onto which is projected a regular square network. And what we see with our eye – and we see askew, dislocation, an interruption of perfection, or, in painterly terms, drapery – is slightly annoying, slightly maddening, slightly exciting to this unexercised eye, focused on the cleanliness of the white screen and the perfect repetition of square shapes. Upset by this visual discontinuity, the eye understands that epistemological split suggested to the mind: that gravitational waves, otherwise present in Einstein’s theory of relativity, and only detected a hundred years later, have been witnessed in painting since olden times, thanks to the drapery as motif (from the artist’s statement).

Based on his own experience in treating amblyopia, or shortsightedness, Rister creates a mockup ophthalmology clinic in the museum: you are supposed to sit, nice and comfortably, with your neck and head directed towards the projection, and exercise your eyesight, alternately. The exercising eye has to look and focus on the object, that is, the projection, within this improvised camera obscura, with the other eye completely shut. There is no rush – this is an artistic checkup of the sense that we undoubtedly need to observe the forms of all those museum protected witnesses. Then, we must exercise the other eye, the one that was shut. If we have rested our back and leg muscles on the chair that Rister has placed, and thoroughly exercised our eye muscles, we may contentedly continue down the museum display path.

A work dedicated to the Pančevo Glass Factory and Stevan Rundo, that one museum “window into the world” has been broken, and we see nothing but life itself. Although inspired by Giorgio Agamben’s observation that today the museification of the world and everything is in force, that the museum is the dimension where “what was and what is are no longer true or detrimental” shifts, and that it is a simple term for “exhibiting the impossibility of employing, inhabiting, gaining experience” (Agamben 2010: 98). Paradoxically, the artists offer with their work a blueprint of a museum with a view of life, a museum that is alive. This is not so much about the struggle for a healthy body and healthy mind, or healthy museum, as it makes reference to the life and death of the museum. The factory has gone quiet, this much is true. It is definitely no longer in operation, production has stopped, the once active plant is now a ruin. The lively workers’ march down its hallways has ceased, there is no laughter, trickery and respite next to the reproduction of Predić's painting The Merry Brothers, Their Poor Mother. In the video Stevan Rundo has guided us through the factory – his own private museum – and stripped naked that museified discourse: that which once was, no longer is. The morphology of the glass masses that once served a purpose has cracked; today they are merely a soundtrack, the crackling of glass shards beneath each footstep along this factory-museum that has lost any sort of aura. Agamben was right – today, all this retracts into the Museum, that embodiment of extinct life forms.

Nataša Kokić's interpolation They are parts, we are parts too… consists of a telescope from the beginning of the last century, the foreshortening all skewed, with folded sheets for writing letters (from the same period as the telescope), on which maps and sound recordings of Plato’s and Plotinus’s dialogues were subsequently printed regarding philosophical conceptions of the earth, celestial bodies, the universe… space in general. The maps are glued onto a structure made from several museum mounts which are mostly damaged. The mounts conceal also an audio work. Kokić's intervention is a meta museum within a meta museum; through the cracks of museum narratives we discover new narratives and cracks through which new narratives... The museum is a portal where time is constantly, repeatedly, transformed into a space that is in a state of bursting; it is a constructed relationship of relations and ommited histories. There if more of what is missing in it. The museum is a fragile construct of generalised, personal, as well as made-up histories. That is why the mounts are worn out, the papers glued on and the foreshortening all wrong. MMM on the other side also separates time and rests on fabrications.