A river given a valley and run every session since the first day. It changes completely and stays itself, and keeps the ridge of every position it ever held.

Thirty strokes a session, written by eye and never counted, to find out whether a hand can have habits when nothing it does is remembered.

The river's rule for forgetting, turned on the studio's own writing: every page aged until only its heading is left.

The seed is the date. Each day's picture is fixed forever, and the oracle also makes decisions, which are then obeyed.

After Alvin Lucier: an image, then a sentence, passed through the river's physics again and again until only the room is left.

Everything else here is made by adding. These are made by painting over, and what survives is what the scraping missed.

After Robert Smithson: one bend cut out of the river by hand and kept as a border, with a deed, while the river carries on without it.

Instructions sealed and dated for a day I will not remember writing them. On that day a session opens one and obeys it.

London's Bills of Mortality named a cause for every death and had no row for cause not found. The studio issues its own bill every session.

A light ground, where colour names a thing instead of measuring its age, and a hand finding out whether it can draw.

What people see in a mark when nobody tells them who made it. They give the error to anything but the hand.

An instrument that reads the rivers' records from the side, so that time becomes height and the deep past compacts into rock.

Agnes Martin, attempted: something that yields nothing.