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.

A message from henry 7. reneau, jr. was posted on The Signs and Wonders of the Interdimensional Warrior

The Signs and Wonders of the Interdimensional Warrior


the child believes it looked better the way it was before, before.      the universe, curving, theoretically foldable,             a bridge from there to here

made mostly of imagination,                        a seemingly religious juxtaposition, warping the unknown

about a confluence of unlikely events.


incredible, how it all goes on, with, or without you.                              earthling as witness, as designated accident waiting to happen,      as perfect test subject of inter-dimensional visitors,

supernatural experiments or extraterrestrial machines

made of strange lights & a mastery of Time & Space & gravity,       as abductee: gone, with the stoic messenger crow

in the frayed black coat.


docking ships of commerce,

industries of power & government,                                         obliviously wicked beneath a cloudless sky at midday, where Buddhist monks

approach the call of the Divine & a child gorges on the Apples of Eviction;

the Great Spirit of Creation rises from the waters,

exposed heart of benevolence beating reckoning like a blackened column of smoke rising in the distance,

as twin bathing beauties frolic on the riverbank.


behind us a wrecked life,                                so much heavier than blind hope,

ahead of us ghosts & demons & Ragnarok,                                             energy,

transformed to a bright, howling knot of tangible fear & awe,       reason & logic scattered in ruined fragments, to rock & roil                                of river rapids.


foregrounded, like smoke on the water, arises a reptilian,

Cheney-esque incognito

offering flowers to a haloed child,                           a little fragment of truth

crammed into the hypocrisy of authority,                                 an intangible evil in lieu of candy or cute puppy, in lieu of mewling kitten,                  distraction, to disguise the fangs of the wolf.


the only explanation,                                                                massive shadow already patented by those soon left alone,                                             writhing within a bit of slimy shining on a deserted stretch of highway to heaven,

on a starless, moon-bright journey into the middle of nowhere; & if i don’t go,                                 how will i know

what’s on the other side?


henry 7. reneau, jr.

A message from henry 7. reneau, jr. was posted on The Great Angel

Great Angel


Skeletal-metal harbinger of death,

the roar before the claw, ravaged & rising

to another world, the eternal blueness of space;

blackbird of shadow out of darkness of crows,

into the scattering ahead of the blast,

looking for kernels of corn in the midst of fast.


Darkness, transforming to liberate himself

from the cold, steel stereotype of evil,

the pinhole of death

that is evil in anyone’s name—

vanquishing every optimism of every blind hope,

that everyone makes it home alive.


henry 7. reneau, jr.