Mare Nostrum
is cool, huge, designed, sterile and housed within a house of God. I don’t know what it does, I don’t need to know what it does. It has retro-futurist looks: it promises all-knowledge. It’s Kubrick styling intimates fears of an abortive attempt at creating intelligence. It’s Kubrick, forty years after the fact. The designers know what people expected when science could save us all. It’s a sculpture, obviously, housed in a vitrine. It’s a laboratory, with attendants. It’s composed of blades: it’s sharp; incisive, accurate, faultless.
