I continue to be frustrated with the hidden noise conundrum. I pore over my Duchamp books and my lists of possible secret objects, squinting like a medieval alchemist trying to decode an arcane kabalistic manuscript by candlelight. I’ve revised the lists again and again: adding and canceling items according to the whims of my ever-shifting criteria. Sometimes I pace the apartment, shaking the empty replica, in a desperate attempt to force my imagination to fill in the void with the exact sound. Nothing works.
I am close to admitting defeat.