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On 16 April Swiss authorities released an algorithm from custody. The bot was arrested in January after it bought 10 ecstasy tablets online, and had been held for over the past three months while a judge determined whether or not a string of code programmed by two artists to hop about the internet buying all sorts of illegal stuff should be prosecuted. Created by the Swiss art collective! The result ended in a haul of suspect packages delivered to the artists, including a baseball cap with a hidden camera, a low-res jpeg of a Hungarian passport, some knock-off Yeezy trainers , five packets of Chesterfield cigarettes, a working VISA credit card number and the ecstasy tablets. Mediengruppe Bitnik describe themselves as slow producers, in that they take the time to really understand the materials they work with. They began their hacks in after Domagoj and Carmen created a basic web page server for their work. From their base in Switzerland, Carmen explained what happened when the authorities took possession of their latest work:. After erratically deciding that the matter was a legal one, the police chose to seize the evidence and the artwork was sealed, meaning the state authorities could not touch the evidence until the case has been heard in front of a judge, where the owning party of the work can then dispute the terms of the seizure. The artists feared that without this process the work would have been destroyed, damaged or lost. As the legal process gathered momentum, it became clear that prosecutors were not interested in any of the others parts of the work apart from the ecstasy tablets, which were tested by the authorities and found to contain MDMA. Carmen and Domagoj explained what this precedent means for future works:. The public prosecution also asserts that the overriding interest in the questions raised by the artwork Random Darknet Shopper justifies the exhibition of the drugs as artefacts, even if the exhibition does hold a small risk of endangerment of third parties through the drugs exhibited. All their work has one common theme; the use of everyday objects as a springboard for bigger ideas, so Zurich, the birthplace of Dadaism, is a natural home for the artists. Domagoj described their work as playing with formal aesthetics, in that they harness the bizarre in the everyday by using concepts as their primary material. The idea was to make the experience more democratic by taking a form of exclusive high art and making it accessible. The gallery, where the performance was housed, then functioned as call centre, with the artists phoning up random telephone numbers asking if they wanted to be connected to the performance. Opera Calling from! Mediengruppe Bitnik on Vimeo. Since Opera Calling, members of the public have been requesting that the artists hack their cities. One anonymous fan even asked! Their approach to hacking comes from open-source ideology; creating quick and dirty solutions to problems by taking bits of open source code and adapting it accordingly. Carmen and Domagoj want to discuss intellectual copyright and who owns what in the age of online. They just go and collect. Google does it. NSA does it. GCHQ does it. Their constructions will continue to use art as a vehicle for sparking debate, with the occasional political high jinks thrown in for good measure. Skip to main content. By Caroline Christie. Mediengruppe Bitnik created a bot that crawled the dark net buying whatever it could find On 16 April Swiss authorities released an algorithm from custody. How do you arrest a bot? Mediengruppe Bitnik. Caroline Christie. Related Posts. This is the best way to fight back against London's anti-homeless spikes. The Modernist Sandcastles of Coney Island.

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After dinner, nobody went home right away. Another recalled the pounding of his heart when he suffered a coronary. Your penis smells good! Young Chris Case reversed the direction and introduced the topic of silences. As for other silences, nobody contributed. In fact, there came a silence now. He limped, but only slightly. Shocked laughter. Nothing of interest. Although none of us showed it, I think we all felt a little irritated with Deirdre. We all wanted to see. Chris pulled up his right pant leg, bunching the cuff about halfway up his thigh, and detached his prosthesis, a device of chromium bars and plastic belts strapped to his knee, which was intact and swivelled upward horribly to present the puckered end of his leg. Now she started to cry. Now we were all embarrassed, a little ashamed. In the pocket of my shirt I had a wonderful Cuban cigar. I wanted to step outside with it. The dinner had been one of our best, and I wanted to top off the experience with a satisfying smoke. But you want to see how this sort of thing turns out. How often will you witness a woman kissing an amputation? Jones, however, had ruined everything by talking. Chris worked the prosthesis back into place and tightened the straps and rearranged his pant leg. Deirdre stood up and wiped her eyes and smoothed her skirt and took her seat, and that was that. The outcome of all this was that Chris and Deirdre, about six months later, down at the courthouse, in the presence of very nearly the same group of friends, were married by a magistrate. You and I know what goes on. Another silence comes to mind. A couple of years ago, Elaine and I had dinner at the home of Miller Thomas, formerly the head of my agency in Manhattan. Right—he and his wife, Francesca, ended up out here, too, but considerably later than Elaine and I—once my boss, now a San Diego retiree. We finished two bottles of wine with dinner, maybe three bottles. After dinner, we had brandy. Before dinner, we had cocktails. After the brandy, I started drinking Scotch, and Miller drank bourbon, and, although the weather was warm enough that the central air-conditioner was running, he pronounced it a cold night and lit a fire in his fireplace. It took only a squirt of fluid and the pop of a match to get an armload of sticks crackling and blazing, and then he laid on a couple of large chunks that he said were good, seasoned oak. At one point we were standing in the light of the flames, I and Miller Thomas, seeing how many books each man could balance on his out-flung arms, Elaine and Francesca loading them onto our hands in a test of equilibrium that both of us failed repeatedly. It became a test of strength. And the painting was masterful, too, from what I could see of it by dim lamps and firelight, amid books scattered all over the floor. Miller took offense. He moved very near the flames and took down the painting and turned to us, holding it before him, and declared that he could even, if he wanted, throw it in the fire and leave it there. A black spot appeared on the canvas and spread out in a sort of smoking puddle that gave rise to tiny flames. Miller sat in a chair across the living room, by the flickering window, and observed from that distance with a drink in his hand. Not a word, not a move, from any of us. The wooden frame popped marvellously in the silence while the great painting cooked away, first black and twisted, soon gray and fluttering, and then the fire had it all. In the office, I asked Shylene to call a locksmith and then to get me an appointment with my back man. In the upper right quadrant of my back I have a nerve that once in a while gets pinched. The T4 nerve. Down my right arm I feel a tingling, a numbness, sometimes a dull, sort of muffled torment, or else a shapeless, confusing pain. To my surprise, Shylene knew all about this something. The award goes to my old New York team, but I was the only one of us attending the ceremony, possibly the only one interested, so many years down the line. This little gesture of acknowledgment put the finishing touches on a depressing picture. The people on my team had gone on to other teams, fancier agencies, higher accomplishments. Meanwhile, Shylene was oohing, gushing, like a proud nurse who expects you to marvel at all the horrible procedures the hospital has in store for you. When I entered the reception area, and throughout this transaction, Shylene was wearing a flashy sequinned carnival mask. Our office environment is part of the New Wave. The whole agency works under one gigantic big top, like a circus—not crowded, quite congenial, all of it surrounding a spacious break-time area, with pinball machines and a basketball hoop, and every Friday during the summer months we have a happy hour with free beer from a keg. In New York, I made commercials. In San Diego, I write and design glossy brochures, mostly for a group of Western resorts where golf is played and horses take you along bridle paths. Just, please, not with a badly pinched nerve. Just the same, her paintings were slyly designed, intricately patterned, and coherent. I wandered from wall to wall, taking some of it in, not much. But looking at art for an hour or so always changes the way I see things afterward—this day, for instance, a group of mentally handicapped adults on a tour of the place, with their twisted, hovering hands and cocked heads, moving among the works like cheap cinema zombies, but good zombies, zombies with minds and souls and things to keep them interested. And outside, where they normally have a lot of large metal sculptures—the grounds were being dug up and reconstructed—a dragline shovel nosing the rubble monstrously, and a woman and a child watching, motionless, the little boy standing on a bench with his smile and sideways eyes and his mother beside him, holding his hand, both so still, like a photograph of American ruin. It seemed the entire staff at the medical complex near my house were costumed for Halloween, and while I waited out front in the car for my appointment, the earliest one I could get that day, I saw a Swiss milkmaid coming back from lunch, then a witch with a green face, then a sunburst-orange superhero. Then I had the session with the chiropractor in his tights and drooping cap. Elaine got a wall phone for the kitchen, a sleek blue one that wears its receiver like a hat, with a caller-I. My inclination was to scorn it, like any other unknown. But this was the first call, the inaugural message. The caller was my first wife, Virginia, or Ginny, as I always called her. We were married long ago, in our early twenties, and put a stop to it after three crazy years. Ginny was dying. Her voice came faintly. Before she ended this earthly transit, as she called it, Ginny wanted to shed any kind of bitterness against certain people, certain men, especially me. The house felt empty. There was nobody there. I was tired. What a day. I called Elaine on her cell phone. We agreed she might as well stay at the Budget Inn on the East Side. She volunteered out there, teaching adults to read, and once in a while she got caught late and stayed over. I could lock all three locks on the door and call it a day. I turned in early. I dreamed of a wild landscape—elephants, dinosaurs, bat caves, strange natives, and so on. People in bathrobes stroll around here at all hours, but not often, I think, without a pet on a leash. Ours is a good neighborhood—a Catholic church and a Mormon one, and a posh town-house development with much open green space, and, on our side of the street, some pretty nice smaller homes. I was having lunch one day with my friend Tom Ellis, a journalist—just catching up. Other than his last meal, of steak, green beans, and a baked potato, which would be served to him the following noon, Mason knew of no future outcomes to worry about and seemed relaxed and content. Ellis quizzed him about his life before his arrest, his routine there at the prison, his views on the death penalty—Mason was against it—and his opinion as to an afterlife—Mason was for it. She was the cousin of a fellow-inmate. She waited tables in a sports bar—great tips. Mason had already said goodbye to his wife. And, in fact, everything proceeded according to the schedule and, about eighteen hours after Ellis talked with him, William Mason was dead. A week later, Ellis interviewed the new widow, Mrs. Ellis located her in Norfolk, working not in any kind of sports bar but, instead, in a basement sex emporium near the waterfront, in a one-on-one peepshow. In order to talk to her, Ellis had to pay twenty dollars and descend a narrow stairway, lit with purple bulbs, and sit in a chair before a curtained window. He was shocked when the curtain vanished upward to reveal the woman already completely nude, sitting on a stool in a padded booth. Her face, though severe, was pretty, and she displayed her parts to Tom unself-consciously, yet without the protection of anonymity. She wept, she laughed, she shouted, she whispered all of this into a telephone handset that she held to her head, while her free hand gestured in the air or touched the glass between them. She seemed to assume that anybody else would have done the same. Thanks to all her fabrications, William Donald Mason had died a proud and happy husband. At the time, the idea of telling her what he wanted had seemed terrible. Now he regretted his shyness. In the play, as he described it for me, the second act would end differently. Before long, we wandered into a discussion of the difference between repentance and regret. The lunch with Tom Ellis took place a couple of years ago. It came to mind today because this afternoon I attended the memorial service of an artist friend of mine, a painter named Tony Fido, who once told me about a similar experience. Tony found a cell phone on the ground near his home in National City, just south of here. He told me about this the last time I saw him, a couple of months before he disappeared, or went out of communication. First he went out of communication, then he was deceased. But when he told me this story there was no hint of any of that. Tony noticed the cell phone lying under an oleander bush as he walked around his neighborhood. He picked it up and continued his stroll, and before long felt it vibrating in his pocket. Her husband had been killed the previous afternoon in an accident at the intersection where Tony had found the cell phone. An old woman in a Cadillac had run him down. At the moment of impact, the device had been torn from his hand. Tony offered to get in his car and deliver the phone to her personally, and she gave him her address in Lemon Grove, nine miles distant. When he got there he discovered that the woman was only twenty-two and quite attractive, and that she and her husband had been going through a divorce. Whenever he talked, Tony kept his hands moving—grabbing and rearranging small things on the tabletop—while his head rocked from side to side and back and forth. He was in his late forties but seemed younger. I met him at the Balboa Park museum, where he appeared at my shoulder while I looked at an Edward Hopper painting of a Cape Cod gas station. Usually I drove to his lively, dishevelled Hispanic neighborhood to see him, there in National City. I like primitive art, and I like folktales, so I enjoyed visiting his rambling old home, where he lived surrounded by his paintings, like an orphan king in a cluttered castle. The house had been in his family since For a while, it was a boarding house—a dozen bedrooms, each with its own sink. Mom watched it till she died. My sister watched it till she died. Talking so fast I could rarely follow, he did seem deranged. But blessed, decidedly so, with a self-deprecating and self-orienting humor that the genuinely mad seem to have misplaced. What to make of somebody like that? Or who Spiro was. Tony never tired of his voluble explanations, his self-exegesis—the works almost coded, as if to fool or distract the unworthy. This period when I was seeing a bit of Tony Fido coincided with an era in the world of my unconscious, an era when I was troubled by the dreams I had at night. They were long and epic, detailed and violent and colorful. They were exhausting. I avoided sleeping on my back, steered clear of disturbing novels and TV shows. For a month, maybe six weeks, I dreaded sleep. Once, I dreamed of Tony—I defended him against an angry mob, keeping the seething throng at bay with a butcher knife. Often, I woke up short of breath, shaking, my heartbeat rattling my ribs, and I cured my nerves with a solitary walk, no matter the hour. I never found out how things turned out between Tony and the freshly widowed twenty-two-year-old. All through his house were scattered twigs and feathers possessing a mysterious significance, rocks that had spoken to him, stumps of driftwood whose faces he recognized. And, in any direction, his canvases, like windows opening onto lightning and smoke, ranks of crimson demons and flying angels, gravestones on fire, and scrolls, chalices, torches, swords. For two seconds, the phrase meant nothing to me. A week ago Friday—nine days ago—the eccentric religious painter Tony Fido stopped his car on Interstate 8, about sixty miles east of San Diego, on a bridge above a deep, deep ravine, and climbed over the railing and stepped into the air. He mailed a letter beforehand to Rebecca Stamos, not to explain himself but only to say goodbye and pass along the phone numbers of some friends. We sat in a circle, with cups and saucers on our laps, in a tiny grove of music stands, and volunteered, one by one, our memories of Tony Fido. None of the rest of us had ever met before. These were friendships, or acquaintances, that Tony had kept one by one. I was the only one of us even aware he devoted all his time to painting canvases. The others thought he owned some kind of business—plumbing or exterminating or looking after private swimming pools. Of course, it troubled us to learn that his mother had taken her own life, too. Had she jumped? With little to offer about Tony in the way of biography, I shared some remarks of his that had stuck in my thoughts. Anybody who can paint like that, have at it, and take the credit. That one had always gone right past me. Now it sounded ominous, prophetic. Had I missed a message? A warning? Anne and her friend, whose name also slipped past me—the pair of women—cornered me afterward. I determined I would give it to Elaine. Too much work and too many leftovers. The binder was too big for any of my pockets. I thought of asking for a bag, but I failed to ask. Elaine was sitting at the kitchen table, before her a cup of black coffee and half a sandwich on a plate. I set the notebook on the table next to her snack. She stared at it. A good companion. At any moment—the very next second—she could be dead. I want to depict this book carefully, so imagine holding it in your hands, a three-ring binder of bright-red plastic weighing about the same as a full dinner plate, and now setting it in front of you on the table. Every kind of cocktail. He said you were his best friend. But on the second day, killing time before the ceremony, walking north through midtown in my dark ceremonial suit and trench coat, skirting the Park, strolling south again, feeling the pulse and listening to the traffic noise rising among high buildings, I had a homecoming. The day was sunny, fine for walking, brisk, and getting brisker—and, in fact, as I cut a diagonal through a little plaza somewhere above Fortieth Street, the last autumn leaves were swept up from the pavement and thrown around my head, and a sudden misty quality in the atmosphere above seemed to solidify into a ceiling both dark and luminous, and the passersby hunched into their collars, and, two minutes later, the gusts settled into a wind, not hard but steady and cold, and my hands dove into my coat pockets. A bit of rain speckled the pavement. Random snowflakes spiralled in the air. All around me, people seemed to be evacuating the scene, while across the square a vender shouted that he was closing his cart and you could have his wares for practically nothing, and for no reason I could have named I bought two of his rat dogs with everything and a cup of doubtful coffee and then learned the reason—they were wonderful. I nearly ate the napkin. New York! Once, I lived here. Went to Columbia University, studying history first, then broadcast journalism. Worked for a couple of pointless years at the Post , and then for thirteen tough but prosperous years at Castle and Forbes on Fifty-fourth, just off Madison Avenue. And then took my insomnia, my afternoon headaches, my doubts, and my antacid tablets to San Diego and lost them in the Pacific Ocean. I knew it the whole time. Today it was all mine. Today I was its proprietor. With my overcoat wide open and the wind in my hair, I walked around and for an hour or so presided over the bits of litter in the air—so much less than thirty years ago! The white flakes began to stick. I repaired myself in the rest room and found the right floor. At the ceremony, my table was near the front—round, clothed in burgundy, and surrounded by eight of us, the other seven much younger than I, a lively bunch, fun and full of wisecracks. And they seemed impressed to be sitting with me, and made sure I sat where I could see. All that was the good part. Halfway through dessert, the nerve in my back began to act up, and by the time I heard my name and started toward the podium my right shoulder blade felt as if it were pressed against a hissing old New York steam-heat radiator. Or, at any rate, our black shoes, and the cuffs of our dark trousers. After a minute, his hand laid on the floor between us, there at the border between his space and mine, a square of toilet paper with an obscene proposition written on it, in words large and plain enough that I could read them whether I wanted to or not. In pain, I laughed. Not out loud. By hunching down into my own embrace and staring hard at my feet, I tried to make myself go away. He must have taken it that I had him under consideration. As long as I stayed, he had reason to hope. My bowels churned and smoldered. Renegade signals from my spinal nerve hammered my shoulder and the full length of my right arm, down to the marrow. The awards ceremony seemed to have ended. Throats and faucets and footfalls. The spin of the paper-towel dispenser. Somewhere in here, a hand descended to the note on the floor, fingers touched it, raised it away. Soon after that the man, the toilet Casanova, was no longer beside me. There were echoes. The urinals flushing themselves. One other man remained in the place. He stood at the sink beside mine as our faucets ran. I washed my hands. He washed his hands. I forgot to introduce myself. Are you here for the awards night? Oh, no. He was a nice guy. But, for this occasion, we men, every one of us, had dressed in dark trousers and black shoes. As I trudged up Fifth Avenue after this miserable interlude, I carried my shoulder like a bushel-bag of burning kindling and could hardly stay upright the three blocks to my hotel. It was really snowing now, and it was Saturday night, the sidewalk was crowded, people came at me, forcing themselves against the weather, their shoulders hunched, their coats pinched shut, flakes battering their faces, and though the faces were dark I felt I saw into their eyes. The episode had passed. I lay bathed in relief. Beyond my window, a thick layer of snow covered the ledge. I became aware of a hush of anticipation, a tremendous surrounding absence. I got out of bed, dressed in my clothes, and went out to look at the city. It was, I think, around 1 A. Snow six inches deep had fallen. Park Avenue looked smooth and soft—not one vehicle had disturbed its surface. Eleven or twelve—Denver, and it had been exactly the same, exactly like this. One lone taxi glided up Park Avenue through the virgin white, and I hailed it and asked the driver to find any restaurant open for business. He took me to a small diner off Union Square, where I had a wonderful breakfast among a handful of miscellaneous wanderers like myself, New Yorkers with their large, historic faces, every one of whom, delivered here without an explanation, seemed invaluable. I paid and left and set out walking back toward midtown. I looked for places where I was the first to walk and kicked at the powdery snow. She wore an evening gown. A light shawl covered her shoulders. She seemed poised and self-possessed, though it was possible, also, that she was weeping. I let the door close behind me. The piano played in the gloom of the farthest corner. In front of the piano a big tenor saxophone rested upright on a stand. With no one around to play it, it seemed like just another of the personalities here: the invisible pianist, the disenchanted old bartender, the big glamorous blonde, the shipwrecked, solitary saxophone. Ten feet away, at her table, the blond woman waited, her shoulders back, her face raised. She lifted one hand and beckoned me with her fingers. She was weeping. The lines of her tears sparkled on her cheeks. I took the chair across from her and watched her cry. I felt the ecstasy of a dancer, but I kept still. In this animated thirty-second spot, you see a brown bear chasing a gray rabbit. The bear looks at this gift, sits down, stares into space. Because it referred, really, to nothing at all, and yet it was actually very moving. But this one broke the rules, and it worked. It brought the bank many new customers. And it excited a lot of commentary and won several awards—every award I ever won, in fact, I won for that ad. It ran in both halves of the twenty-second Super Bowl, and people still remember it. They go to the team. To the agency. Credit goes first of all to the banking firm who let this strange message go out to potential customers, who sought to start a relationship with a gesture so cryptic. It was better than cryptic—mysterious, untranslatable. I think it pointed to orderly financial exchange as the basis of harmony. Money tames the beast. Money is peace. Money is civilization. The end of the story is money. I crawled out of my twenties leaving behind a couple of short, unhappy marriages, and then I found Elaine. Twenty-five years last June, and two daughters. Have I loved my wife? Not in her looks but in her attitude of complacency. She lacks fire. Seems interested mainly in our two girls. She keeps in close contact with them. Before the girls started grade school, we left New York and headed West in stages, a year in Denver too much winter , another in Phoenix too hot , and finally San Diego. San Diego. What a wonderful city. Completely wonderful. Never regretted coming here, not for an instant. And financially it all worked out. Not much. Less than I. We have a very small TV that sits on a dresser across the room. Keeping it going provides an excuse for lying awake in bed. I have more to remember than I have to look forward to. Once in a while, I lie there as the television runs, and I read something wild and ancient from one of several collections of folktales I own. Apples that summon sea maidens, eggs that fulfill any wish, and pears that make people grow long noses that fall off again. Then sometimes I get up and don my robe and go out into our quiet neighborhood looking for a magic thread, a magic sword, a magic horse. Save this story Save this story. Silences After dinner, nobody went home right away. Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon. Link copied. I was confused. I hardly knew him. By Lore Segal. Annals of Psychology. By Eren Orbey. Invitation Only. By Holden Seidlitz. Open Questions. Does Anyone Really Know You? Our yearning to be fully known is inevitable—and, perhaps, misleading. By Joshua Rothman. Innovations Dept. At his new flagship store in SoHo, the British billionaire and vacuum magnate celebrates futuristic headphones and mushroom-enhanced hair-styling products. By Sarah Larson. Musical Events. An Idyllic Music Series in the Hebrides. Mendelssohn on Mull celebrates chamber music away from urban pressures. By Alex Ross. By Michael Schulman. By Robert Pinsky. War Comes to Beirut. The conflict between Israel and Hezbollah has erupted, displacing more than a million people. Many in Lebanon fear a Gaza-like campaign of violence. By Rania Abouzeid. Cowboy-Dance Future World. By Jack Handey. The Weekend Essay. The Pain of Travelling While Palestinian. This year, I learned the difference between a traveller and a refugee. By Mosab Abu Toha. Photo Booth. In the eighties, the Puerto Rican photographer Ricky Flores captured the parties and the people that shaped his teen-age years. By Geraldo Cadava.

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