The Internet of Experiences: The Interactive Rice Wedding Dress

This video was filmed on location in Davis, California at the Art Basel Miami Beach Davis Satellite Show and at Swanson’s Cleaners. The performance entitled “One Grain, Seven Pounds of Sweat” was by Aram Han ( Links to the video file will be written on a Bulacard that will be part of a series of RFID-tagged digital messages to The President. Memories from the past can be instantly retrieved, displayed, and shared from the card using NFC cell phones such as the Galaxy S3 running on Google’s Android 4.0. Additional information about the project can be found at, and


Poem by henry 7. reneau, jr., inspired by Aram Han’s performance art

Daily Practice #1


after “One Grain, Seven Pounds Of Sweat” by Aram Han


. . . what lies behind the visible world—Joseph Campbell  


the daylight fading slowly, collapsing

distances &

the center of their lives 

they work

the menial jobs we shun &

feed our children

as their children negotiate hunger

carrying the weight

of the world &

pushed to work &

work unseen or


each day under-


cooked, pierced, dried & threaded

like grains of rice the unseen


piecework sewn with tendon & bone


made tedious & repetitive

seemingly endless &

extremely time-


minimal needle &

monotonous gestures

of seam/stressed labor

as metaphors for larger concepts &

each strand

marks the phenomenon

the spirit of the work

of sweatshop duplication

in linear, rhythmic & repetitive 

stitches of time

as manual labor of their hands

Poem by henry 7. reneau, jr., inspired by Aram Han’s performance art

lady sisyphus 

after “One Grain, Seven Pounds Of Sweat” by Aram Han


a personal mythology of labor &

                                                salt-lined sweat

as a natural dye

              is the immigrant seamstress

threading the needle                      precision

passing necessity through

                        infinitesimal aperture of eye

         is intricate & cyclical dance of needle

in hand             is the under-appreciated &

invisible repetition of repair

piercing the cloth, pulling 

the needle up               piercing the cloth &

pulling the needle down

through scraps of cloth       lost in the slow

rhythmic musical tempo, her sweat

      a translucent evidence of labor & work

                                          one stitch at a time

mending a quota of disparate parts &

           core movements of instinctive echo

is the spirit of the work

                       chained to the labor of hands

A poem from henry 7. reneau, jr. for Aram Han’s performance art

a grain of truth


after “One Grain, Seven Pounds Of Sweat” by Aram Han


Hope is a chain

                           as strong

as its weakest link: a symmetry

of desire, like a beautiful woman

        in a white wedding dress,

embellished by

      a mortal majesty of balance &

one miniature gray bowl

                of a thousand, thousand


                     Her pearlescent allure

invokes one prayer for the dead:

arising, out & up & onto—

by threaded stitch,

          by solitary grain of rice,

                                    a single spoon

of ocean at a time.

Her plea,

as religiously fashionable

as a fall of hair,

                                   a breath of life,

                         onto a void of white.

An arabesque appliqué

where-through gleams Creation,                                        

                                         woven from

            virginal moments of faith—

catching the stars

                             in those moments

when she is most truly aware

of the fearful symmetry of life—

between compression &

expansion & the invocation

                  of the seamstress’s art.


is a bowl of rice 

in the hand of a starving child,

             the humming thing inside:

gossamer thread & polished rice

                     like miniature pearls,

a metaphor of surface sweetness

             lifting that nameless thing

onto a wedding with the weave.

A message from henry 7. reneau, jr. for Finley Fryer’s future sculpture

Aqua-Boogie Eve

In the beginning—the smell of the rib joint still on her—like desire
Dancing from the dream of Stan, the Submerging Man

She rises, bitch-monikered by the Gods, like aqua-boogie Venus
Ascending from the watery ocean liege

As Zeus & his familiars hurled lightning bolts down, into the earth
The white-hot electricity

Melting the barren, sand-covered places to liquid sand, to mosaic
of prismatic glass assembled into womanly grace

Above the isolation of gridlock, drive-at-five—the Tenth Muse

As feminine figure of brilliant, ball lightning, Goddess-smile
Of kaleidoscope glass, of lust & fascination, every shard

A resistance pressing against the walls of an enlightened heart
Speaking emanations to all the deities

In all four directions of the Grail, every syntax an illumines
Birthed restless & elsewhere, word as Word, as sunlight

That sugared her nakedness, the bend & shift
Of multi-colored hips, of nubile echo of erotic Kama Sutra:

Blue of midday sky, cobalt blue of ego, sapphire kiss of sea-breeze
Green of neon chameleon, echo of emerald, the sheen of new-mown
grass beneath the mist of cycling sprinklers

Yellow of pristine amber, gaggle of goldenrod, sunflower petal
slanted into sun
Red-hot rose, Eden apple, scarlet stealth of fox & heated blush
of rouge

henry 7. reneau, jr.

A message from henry 7. reneau, jr. was posted on It Can Happen Now…TO YOU

After the atomic bomb.
After the sulfurous seep of toxins into the swamp, after
wild-eyed, mad scientists in lab coats, tweaking the beast to create an
Other & Optional Eve: black & white, blown-
back hairdo, circa Elsa Lanchester.

This one begins with the gorilla-suit actor
& its long, great line of inhabitants,
unconscious starlets in their arms or slung
over primordial shoulders. A primal yearning for the moon
luminescent through the scaffolding at Ground Zero.

The sea monster’s mutated gills wheezing like a gun-shot lung &
its ancient hunger
a universe of empty refrigerators. The Creature from the Black Lagoon
comes walking up through the waves—p-funk Aquaboogie—lurching
towards the balloon-breasted blond in high heels, hungering
for blood,
a virgin mate,
a surrogate womb;
its oversized claws opening & closing,
as the woman cries wolf, fights back,
her screams the adolescent shade of Little Red Riding Hood.

Will Robinson was the lucky one, unlike the teen-aged girl in high heels,
running through a graveyard to escape the living dead; his robot
had an early warning system: flashing lights & whirling antennas &
lightning bolts from caterwauling
appendages, his automaton voice
the digital specter of Stepin’ Fetchit: Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!!!

henry 7. reneau, jr.