Zero Mass

As Amy and I were shelving recently donated art books, we were intrigued by a Styrofoam box, covered in a cardboard sleeve, sitting casually between two other volumes. The mysterious packaging convinced us both that we should open it right away. Nested inside the Styrofoam package, were two harmless, unembellished items: a dark metallic book and a ball of fired clay a little smaller than my fist.

              
After the anticlimactic reveal, I removed the book from its package. The cover was made of metal, and the edges seemed to have been made intentionally sharp. The words emblazoned on the title page read “Zero Mass: The Art of Eric Orr” and beneath that was a signature “Tim, Thank you, Eric.” A quote on the next page, the lone image of a coffee stain on the one after that. Page 25 was blank and torn in half. The following section contained a segmented short story, the next, a series of quotes and the next, artworks. On my way through the book, I encountered the very center page, a blank expanse of soft red paper. Then followed a chapter entitled “Nexus,” containing a series of mathematical equations, and a section of letters to the artist.

              
At the end of the book there was a colophon with copyright information and the like. I did find two rather surprising facts there, however. The first was that what I thought was a coffee ring at the beginning of the book was not a coffee ring at all, but a rubber stamp of the artist’s blood. I’ll admit, I went back to examine it again more closely. The second fact was even more startling. The center page of soft red paper, the colophon told me, was handmade using kozo fibers and powdered mummy skull, and I’ll admit, I went back and touched it again.

              
I wasn’t sure exactly what Zero Mass was supposed to be. It contained everything and the kitchen sink, but what I really wished for was an instruction manual. Perhaps I don’t possess the sensibility necessary to appreciate Orr’s art, but I will always appreciate the ability to say to someone, “Come look at this book. Feel this red paper. Isn’t it soft?” 

--Kate Cuellar '15, Special Collections and Archives Student Assitant