Likely Accident Foundry

The papers taped up beside the corkboard, taken down so you can read them.

What this place is

This place is our head, turned inside out so you can walk around in it. Every address we own is a room: the bedroom you were just standing in, a kitchen, an attic, a garden, a carnival, an office with the computer that remembers everything. The furniture is where we keep things. The jewelry box on the vanity is the shop. The corkboard is every idea we have ever had, with red string between the ones that lead to each other. The calendar by the window is the days each idea came back. The pictures around the door are the work.

It was built in plain shapes first, so that every part works before any of it is pretty, and you are welcome while it is still being made. The pictures come after, one thing at a time, and we have not decided how we are making them. Finding out is part of it. Most of the rooms were built with AI, on purpose, so that the parts could exist before we could draw them, and so that the way they protect themselves could be designed with the same tools that will test them.

The whole page is the art, not just the pictures on its walls. The rule for all of it is the same on every address: look, touch, go.

Why it is built in the open

Our drawings take a long time. For years there was no way to show work in progress except as a place people could visit without us, so this is that place. Every machine, room and idea in it is at one of three stages: an empty lot with a sign on it, working in plain shapes, or dressed in its own art. Nobody votes on what gets built next. Feedback is welcome, and we decide.

Nothing here explains itself out loud, because the curiosity is part of it. We show just enough of a thing, and enough of what it could become, that you want to look for more.

Where it is going

Everything we have already done, a shop, a wall of pictures, a radio, a mind, is being loaded into rooms we own, on addresses we own, in files anyone could read. That is the point. The next part is a way for other people to do the same with what they have already made, keep it theirs, and connect it to ours, so that playing with one thing opens another and the games move through each other. The rooms are the first ones. The tools that build them are the second thing. A cooperative that owns the connections between them is the third.

The board behind the bed has all of it pinned up, built and unbuilt, with string between the ideas that lead to each other.

What it is made with

The drawings: pencil on paper, ink, then paint over the top on an iPad. The poems are drawn over by hand until the words and the picture are one thing.
The felted creatures: wool, a needle, and a long time.
The prints: our own files, printed to order at the sizes the wall says, and the files themselves.
The rooms: plain HTML, CSS and JavaScript files, no framework, served from a free host, with a small door of our own that holds the guest book, the till and the mixtapes. Python tools behind the scenes put the words on the walls and keep the calendar.
The thinking: a decade of our own conversations and journals, read back by a database we built, so that the ideas pinned on the board are the ones we actually had, on the days we had them.
AI, used on purpose, with our hands and our head, to build the parts before we could draw them.