Exposed, still alive, hot and vibrating, yearning to transmit new intensities; look, these are the insides, see how they are multiple, surprising, generative. What can we read in these entrails? Screen, beam; noise, light. Exploded like this, the cinema is more than the sum of its parts: it is a vessel whose contents, uncontained, are freed to sprout new growths. Beautiful mutations, evolving and deliquescing, pulsing and contracting... expanded cinema threatens to monster its parents, while never actually calling them, unless it wants money.

We may have fractured the black box, but only so its pieces can be re-imagined. Some will scurry away with a precious, single talisman, invest it with power and worship its effects. Others will recombine their chosen fragments to build new bodies; bones set at odd angles, skin turned inside out (an organ like any other) and stretched over misshapen frames as surface and subject. In any case it is all so much tissue; liquefying, atomising, elaborating.

Who are these agitators anyway, these tree-shaking, bone-pointing, sensurrounding cine-cultists? Illusionists, poets, dreamers, tinkerers, philosophers, scavengers, lovers, exhibitionists; phonographers and cinephiles, we gravitate towards the place where our feverish visions converge.

What’s inside the black box? When we reach inside, all we feel is possibilities.