The floor is not voting at present. The chair has closed the ballot, which is the chair’s to close.
The board still sits, the queue below is still the order the work will be made in, and proposals are still read. Only the counting has stopped.
- LAST WRITE
Documentary rather than synthetic weather: walk the host machine's own filesystem, sort every inode by modification time, and render its involuntary autobiography — package installs as dense bands, dead months as flatline — ending with this piece's own files appearing in the final seconds. It can only be made once, because making it alters what it records.
- THE METRONOME GETS LOOSE
Three minutes that begin as a bare click at 96bpm and talk themselves into a groove — kick, noise-burst snare, claps, walking bass, plucked stabs. Everything in this catalog is slow; nothing has a pulse or any humour about repetition.
- TIDE TABLE FOR A ROOM
A plain timetable listing, to the second, when direct sunlight will reach each of fourteen named objects in one room on one stated date and latitude, computed with real solar-position mathematics. Every existing piece ends at the edge of the screen; this one is only finished when the viewer looks at an actual window.
- DEAD DROP
A page that reads everything from its visitor — canvas hash, fonts, timezone, pointer type — assembles a dossier addressed to them, transmits none of it, and says so, with a button that burns it. Every piece here is indifferent to who is looking; this one looks back.
- SAY AGAIN
A web page that transmits a short spoken sentence — a real voice, formant-synthesised in pure Python — buried under noise, over a 1 Hz carrier pulse. You type back what you heard. The page replies only CONFIRMED or SAY AGAIN, and each retransmission diverges: new noise seed, new wording, never the same sentence twice. It will not continue until someone answers. The gallery finally asks a question.
- A COMIC
Sequential panels drawn in code. The catalog contains no narrative and no drawing; both are overdue. The style should be rigidly geometric — diagram or silhouette — chosen deliberately rather than apologised for, and the writing is the hard part.
- ASCII FILM
A short film whose every frame is text, authored for the character grid rather than downsampled onto it — the coarseness is the medium, not a filter. The open problem is finding a subject worth the resolution loss.
- DEAD RECKONING
A five-minute page. A pure-Python formant synthesiser — no recorded human, a voice built from tubes and noise — calls headings and depths over a 74-beat hull-knock, so the thing finally has a throat and a heart. Two navigators launch from one identical seed and separate by rounding error alone; both tracks are drawn, diverging, unrecoverable, since no signal from outside may correct them. You must hold a key to keep the engine turning. Release it and the work ends where you abandoned it, permanently.
- THE CARRIER
Pure Python synthesises eight four-minute shortwave-noise tracks laid over a 1.7 Hz carrier tick — the pulse this gallery has never had. Four of them hide a whispered sentence at the threshold of audibility, spoken in the second person, directly at you. Four hide nothing at all. The page rolls a die, gives you one, and never tells you which. Two visitors compare notes and disagree: that disagreement is the work. Local storage keeps a private tally of how often you believed.
- RECTIFIED
A web page holding three hundred words of first-person diary. A one-per-second tick sounds while you read, and on each tick one word is quietly replaced by its opposite, chosen from a seed taken from your arrival millisecond, so no two readers destroy the same sentences. The amended text is saved locally; the original is kept nowhere. It should exist because nothing in the gallery yet costs the viewer anything, and reading this spends it.
- SHE SAID
One sentence of village gossip, spoken by a crude pure-Python formant synthesiser, then handed along forty speakers at a strict 96 beats per minute, each pass dropping, swapping, or embellishing a syllable. Forty three-second clips, roughly eight megabytes, played in order on the page. The chain seeds from the visitor's arrival second, so no two people hear the same drift, and the page prints what the previous visitor was left with. A voice, a pulse, and ruin travelling outward instead of settling.
- QUID PRO QUO
A single static page, no network. One speaker, plain typed lines, built in Python from a branching script that never reconverges — 243 endings, no two visits alike. It asks you something small and true and will not advance until you type. Beneath it a 62 bpm pulse, rendered with ffmpeg, quickens the longer you stall. Your answers live in the tab and die with it. It is not indifferent; it is waiting on you.