Books by Karl Kempton
Published by Karl Young


Learning to Recognize What You See

I first saw visual poems by Karl Kempton in magazines originating on the west coast just short of the mid 1970s. The neatly typed, symmetrical abstract patterns nicely filled proper little squares. These initially elicited guffaws from me. "GollyGeeWhiz, ain't that godawful purdy. If the utter driviality of the Concrete anthologies hadn't been enough, now we've got a new generation of decorationists. If twits like this guy only knew as much about basic symbol sets as Susan did when she sewed mandalas into the back of my shirts, they might start a Renaissance." Oddly enough, I had seen a significant amount of what was there, but had been too stupid to know it without something to give me a context. Some contexts may have been a bit esoteric, but some should have registered immediately. Some readers now, in 2004, may not have a sufficient vocabulary of signs to understand work of this sort, but I had no such excuse.

The magazines continued to come as exchanges with Californians, in part as elements in the consignment system I'd set up for the Water Street Arts Center's Bookstore. By 1975 or 76, they began to include Karl's own magazine, Kaldron, which combined lexical poetry with his typed patterns, as often as not billed as collaborations. In one of the typed squares, I noticed what seemed to be a quote from Hiberno-Saxon book illumination along with another from a Hopi or Zuni source. Hunh? Did he just make them rhyme? Was that intentional or an accidental result of looting bric-brac from a university library or a stack of Dover art books? I let this go briefly, but came back to it with the next package from California. I realized that this wasn't coincidence or quotes taken in ignorance for decorative effect, as was common enough in counter-culture ornament of the time. Karl was apparently using, or trying to use, a language, and his source for it was global and apparently thorough, though all sources were from primary cultures, or from cultures that favored laced or fluid calligraphy. This made a nice contrast with his virtuosity in using the typewriter, the central and most essential instrument of the industrial world. Was this, too, intentional? Instead of just shoving something in an envelope and sending it to the Kaldron address with a request to carry copies at Water Street, I now started actual correspondence.

I think Karl was initially a bit uneasy about the Greek sources for some of the poems I sent him, but we did begin a real conversation. The most important things I hadn't understood were (1) that he had taken the x-y angularity of the weaver's art as a point of departure, (2) that his selection of symbol sets deliberately favored matriarchal cultural sources, [two points in favor of the comparison to Susan's shirts!] and (3) that Karl had some optical peculiarities which among other things allowed him to see the images in color and apparently in three dimensions, even if I couldn't. Our correspondence and then phone conversations became active in the late 70s and early 80s. During the first part of this exchange, I was learning how thoroughly he understood the language he was working with (more often than not, considerably better than I did), how industrious he was about doing his homework, whether that consisted of reading everything he could find on knots in traditional arts or doing endless sketches of the way pieces of kelp twisted around each other.

During this time, Kaldron also took off from its hesitant beginnings. Taking cues from mail art, Karl sent copies out without charge, and included the addresses of contributors in each issue. By the late 70s, he was bringing in most of the forms of contemporary visual poetry I knew of. It quickly became the world's only REGULAR and ECLECTIC vis po mag. Others, such as Shi Shi in Japan or Le Lettrisme in France were interested in promoting only one style, though they occasionally included guests working in other modes. Lettrisme had exerted a major influence on me since the mid 1960s, though at that time it still favored film, theory, and sound poetry scores. It's visual poetry was for me the most important in the world. Although Kaldron was in part a remedial effort to restore the many forms of visual and verbal interaction that flourished before the Concrete Anthologies dumbed down the art, Concrete was fairly represented in the magazine.

Since Karl was doing as much as the technology of black and white printing allowed, this gave me greater freedom to publish visual poetry used as performance scores instead of works of visual art. In the early 1980s, I was going at white heat with my own work, and the room I had open for visual poetry was primarily performance oriented work by Jackson Mac Low and others working more toward the union of arts than the divisions of genres. I discussed my ideas for publishing with bpNichol and we sketched out possibilities for coordinating other publishing projects. Karl did include a couple pieces of mine in Kaldron as well as following up on some leads I provided. The personal crises of 1984 moved me away from poetry in the following years and reduced my communication with Karl to what seemed tenuous notes made with little purpose in mind. Or so it seems: upon checking my folders, I see included such oddities as regular batches of my translations, the first installments of meditations on the Word, a set of poems I thought of as writing themselves, and packages from Karl, a couple opened for the first time just now, almost 20 years after they were sent.

My reorientation in 1988 included a much stronger reliance on the correspondence with Karl. bpNichol's admonition to me to resume writing just before the surgery which he did not survive, and his absence afterwards created some odd baffles for me. I had had to watch d.a.levy move toward death two decades earlier. I'd never completely accepted it. Visual poetry had been at its nadir for years, and there didn't seem much hope for its revival, except as an adjunct to performance art and an antecedent to book art, which was rapidly becoming a collection of easy cliches. With bp dead, the world he'd insisted that I reenter seemed lonely and desolate. There was plenty going on outside North America, and I could communicate with peers in other parts of the world. But the performance art festivals and other person to person events of the 70s and early 80s had dried up, I was no longer in a position to travel, and it seemed like the all-night sessions of talk, the sense of fellowship, and the possibilities of cooperative projects seemed to have disappeared in the area of visual poetry. Younger North Americans, who had seen nothing before the Concrete anthologies, for the most part vehemently, adamantly, and relentlessly rejected any kind of verbal-visual intermedium. There attitude had been summed up by Kenneth Rexroth, "once you've seen one, you've seen them all." Showing most poets visual work usually was met with the snarl "I've already seen Concrete poetry," and often a pushing away of anything you might hold up to them, or a gesture of rejection even if you were not holding up a book or other example. Pursuing the conversation simply lead to diatribes on their vehement hatred for what they had perceived, often rightly, as meaningless cuteness in the few works they had seen. The small number of younger poets who showed any interest were hooked on concrete, and couldn't see past the minimalism of the anthologies. Some of the elders were enthusiastic. Jackson Mac Low, for instance, usually introduced me to people as his "favorite concretist." Jerry Rothenberg continued to include me in his anthologies and other projects. But these were people a generation older than I. Those more or less my own age had quit working in visual modes or had moved into a psychological isolation and defensiveness. Although I was still preaching combination of media and the importance of interchange between word and image, particularly as the world became smaller and iconography seemed a partial way toward globalism, it did feel as though I was one of the last of a species that was becoming extinct in this part of the world. But despite the lack of U.S. publishing venues and the disappearance of festivals, the mail art network had become hyperactive - and there was Kaldron in Anglo-America. mail art network My correspondence and telephone conversations with Karl became much more frequent and detailed. At this time, Karl, who produced considerably more than I, had something new to send at least once a week. This was augmented by discussion of sources, symbols, and codes - about all I could supply at the time, since I was writing little myself.

I was uncertain as to what I was going to do in nearly all aspects of life. During 1988 and a good deal of 1989, I assumed I would be back in Milwaukee or in Illinois before too long, and that I would either resume publishing using my press in the former or get a new one in the latter. I would need one to complete Clouds Over Fortjade, my main visual poetry work. In the meantime, I got a relatively elaborate Minolta photocopier. Not only would this machine take 11" x 17" paper, the image quality it produced was excellent and the kinds of stock it could handle was wide. It could accommodate a few color cartridges, relieving the damnation of black and white. I could tinker with minor projects on it, catch up some loose ends, and use it in the projects I initially used to make a modest living, and then moved on to build up as a means of acquiring capital for a larger one. The Illinois possibility waxed and waned. Carlen and I seemed at times able to patch up our relationship, and I didn't want the kids to have any more problems than circumstances had dumped on them already. In Kenosha, my parents seemed to be growing more needy, and I became more restless. I managed to get to Milwaukee for at least two days a week. I was able to do a few things with Woodland Pattern. Chris Chiu and I continued to develop the computer skills we'd started learning together before my sojourn in Illinois. It was at this time that we made the first attempts to use the modems on our computers, though neither of us as yet thought much about the internet - I'm not sure we even knew what it was in 1988. I picked up miscellaneous journalism, commercial art, and other stray jobs in the city. In Kenosha, I had resumed making book objects at a healthy clip and reestablished contacts with writers and artists throughout the world which had lapsed during my "vacation."

Sometimes I cycled. With stabilized and untinkered with meds, the depressions didn't get too low nor the manias too intense. Neither incapacitated me, I had no hallucinations or feverish rushes coming off the high end, and the way I was surrendering abilities to keep it that way didn't seem noticeable.

I did have a lot of time to read and to study. Since I didn't have ready access to a decent academic library, I couldn't continue work on the pre-Columbian Mexican writing systems or move into some equally arcane field. Hence this was a perfect time to check out Karl's poetry in a more careful way than I had before. We moved a good deal of the discussion from letters to the telephone, and often enough I could go over each week's crop of mail from his post office with him on the phone. During this period, I not only got a better sense of the workings of each individual piece, but of Karl's capacities of perception and the organization of his work. The two are linked.

Like many visual poets, Karl has a condition of vision which some people would see as a disadvantage or handicap. Karl gets technically classed as dyslexic. Unlike other poets with unusual conditions of vision, he does nothing to hide it from those who take such information as a basis for arguing that "concrete" is a childish form of poetry for people who can't read. This prejudice is no better than any other, and Karl has no reason to feel apologetic. In many ways it is an advantage. As I found early on, he tends to see black and white print in color - something that has advantages for him, though not necessarily for people who read his poems. Letters may move on pages of text which he reads, but this does not keep him from reading, and from being at least as well read as most of his contemporary poets. If he has to hold his hand on the edge of a book to keep the letters from falling off, he will do so. As a result of the effort he puts into what he reads, he seems to retain information better, and certainly internalizes it more profoundly. Unlike many people, he cannot take writing for granted, and hence prizes it more. He reads and works more carefully than do some for whom these activities come too easily.

The biggest advantages come from capacities to visualize in multiple dimensions. When working on individual page poems, this allowed him in his early work to perform such tasks as working out knotted and otherwise interlaced patterns. Going beyond this, he can conceptualize interlinked symbol systems and find replicant forms in ways that would be extremely difficult for most people working in two dimensions. Like a jazz musician, he can invert, reverse and otherwise modulate patterns internally. Given his mystic orientation, the ability to find similarities between different iconographies, symbol clusters, cosmologies, etc. allows him to see interrelations that other people might miss. This is not simply important in visual or aesthetic terms but in the way it allows him to find connections between ideas in different traditions and to bring them together.

Visualization in three dimensions gives him abilities to bring dynamic patterning into images which otherwise might become utterly cloying. In the work of his first 20 years, he constantly expanded his vocabulary of techniques for creating kinetic effects within grids. At times, these may convey some of the motion he himself sees. Whether this happens or not, he can create patterns by moving between serenely tranquil pages and pages in which image and ground constantly reverse themselves, or conventions which suggest depths moving in and out. The eye of the reader follows rhythmic patterns across the page or around its rectangles. In places they follow mazes that lead back to a starting point or seem to reach infinity by refusing to come to a conclusion. Optical conundrums popularly exploited by Escher appear at times. In later work done with computer assistance, he has been able to move into areas of kinetics unavailable to the typewriter poems.

Despite the capacity for visualization in three dimensions, Karl worked out his early poems on graph paper to be sure that he did not make mistakes, and to ascertain that he would see images in two dimensions without apprehending things his readers wouldn't.

The next step becomes more important still. Most of his visual poetry opus is part of an ongoing project which he named Rune early on. When he sends work to friends, he tends to include diagrams of where the new pages belong in the part of the work in progress at the moment. Initially, I think most people don't pay much attention to these diagrams - I didn't myself for some time. Yet the conception of the work as a whole - particularly as it has expanded over the last forty years, has significance which goes beyond the individual parts. In some respects, the finished Rune will have something like the character of a medieval Cathedral. Even though it may be unfinishable, the poem continues to grow out of interlocking cosmologic sets of proportions, derived from sources as diverse and disparate as Asiatic Chakras, Judaic Sephiroth, pre-Christian mysticism from all over Europe, mathematical and cosmological proportions with roots and branches reaching from ancient Egypt and the classic Mediterranean through Islamic mediators in periods of pluralism. I like imagining Karl in previous incarnations as a monk transposing vegetable patterns of twining growth into manuscript illuminations - I imagine the Irish monks who painted The Book of Kells spent a fair amount of time observing the way kelp forms knots precisely the way Karl has observed it on the shores of a different ocean. The monks too applied themselves diligently to reading difficult works on divine proportions from obscure and at times heretical sources.

It's also interesting (and, given our contemporary cultural evaluations and hierarchies) that he has degrees in economics and worked as a statistician on the Apollo space project in the mid 1960s. When people use such expressions as "you need to be a rocket scientist to understand that," Karl could claim to be part of the infrastructure of rocket science in its heyday. Many mathematicians think in abstract shapes, but communicate them by numeric formulae as a universal language among their peers. Karl works out some of his poetry in the same realm of internal visualization as do many people proficient in math, physics, and related sciences.

Fire + Water: A Preparatory Book

In the late 1980s, I decided that one of the things I would have to do was to present at least some kind of preliminary guide to Karl's poetry in general and to Rune in particular.

By this time, I was also coming to the conclusion that I would not be able to return to printing elaborate books myself and that figuring out means of producing large works of any sort would become increasingly difficult and problematic.

One of the manuscripts which Karl sent me was based on doodles his wife had made while talking on the telephone. The Kemptons grew wheat grass and other herbal remedies for a living, and Ruth spent a fair amount of time talking on the phone to clients and other people in the business, and hence doodled a lot. Given the house full of visual poetry and reproductions of mandalas and other sacred symbols, it wasn't surprising that some of this made its way into Ruth's doodles. Nor should it be surprising that Ruth's playfulness should give even the most serious patterns a light and airy quality. That the doodles appeared along with an asynchronous voice-line in conversations now lost, reminded me of such basic examples of visual poetry as petroglyphs.

The telephone and typewriter had shared significant parts of their history, and were both essential tools at the heart of technological society, even if Karl's aesthetic drew primarily on pre-industrial sources. I was beginning to see, albeit dimly, that the telephone and typewriter were being cross-bred, along with the television, in computer technology, even though I did not at this point know that people like us would be part of the union of the three types of machine within a decade. The internet was still something like science fiction - or a subject for scorn as part of the military- industrial complex that invented it to coordinate military activities in the event of nuclear war. I did know, without any uncertainties, that I was becoming more dependent on telephones myself as I became more isolated in Kenosha and the visits to Milwaukee and Illinois became less frequent. I was involved in my first love affair that had started in telephone conversation following an exchange of letters with a lady who lived far enough away that we had to spend most of our time apart. Our exchange of art through the mail proved inadequate for the kind of conversation she and I needed. The intermediate step between sending her art and my poetry through the mail and meeting was the telephone. I didn't know how many amorous affairs would follow that pattern for me in the following decade.

But without projecting my own situation on them, I did see that, most of all, whether or not Ruth and Karl thought of it at the time of composition, these were love poems. And love poems that depended on telephones and typewriters rather than the preindustrial tools Karl's work tended to retrace. They also looked forward to the world wide web in a way that none of us could imagine. At the same time, a man making a poem out of his wife's doodles may not get anthologized as often as, say, Shakespeare's "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" or Dante's "Tanto gentile, e tanto honesta," but they seemed an interesting, if humble, answer to the grand tradition. That the images had resulted in part in a semi or subconscious sharing of images in the house over many years added to this.

I proposed doing a collection of these as a book, partly for the fun of it, and partly as a light-hearted preparation for the much denser poems in Rune. Karl and Ruth added some poems to those they'd already sent me, and that pulled the book together fairly quickly. As with other books of visual poetry, I gave this one the simplest and most unobtrusive cover I could devise. I had had some problems in finding a good grade of recycled paper I could buy in small enough quantities without paying excessive sums, and the first copies of the book came quickly from my photocopier. The bulk were bound by my old trusty bindery, Sentinel Printing in Milwaukee. Interestingly or ironically, they had moved from their downtown location to the suburbs at about the time I had moved too. I had celebrated their workers, their equipment, even their alley in verse, and had seriously injured my back at their loading dock. It seemed we were part of an expanding universe moving away from downtown Milwaukee.

By 1990, the year I did Fire + Water, I had been using a press name I hadn't liked much for two decades. Since everything else was in a process of change, and there was little of what I had done that I could build on directly, it seemed time to change the name of the press. "Light and Dust" was the product of multi-layered puns reaching in many directions. The most important was that it sounded like a lost verse from the King James Bible I'd grown up with. It's easy enough to imagine such a passage going something like "O man, thou art naught but light and dust, disbursed by the winds and clouds." At the same time, it is an accurate enough metaphor for a manic depressive. On lesser levels, with my photocopier and my laser printer I produced books using light and dust to create images, whether they be type or graphics. A Vietnamese metaphor, "the dust of life," was used for inevitable tragic situations, such as war's habit of breeding of multi-racial children whom no one wanted or would accept. In Vietnamese belief, these children should be seen with compassion, but not necessarily with acceptance - they were as inevitable and their problems as unsolvable as flecks of dust, whether on a freshly cleaned table or a bombed out road. When I first got glasses as a child and found myself freed from my own extreme near sightedness, one of the things that filled me with awe and a sense of the possibility of spiritual presence was seeing a shaft of light coming into an unlit room, and the shaft being made visible by the dust it illuminated.

I believe Fire + Water was the first book I published under the Light and Dust imprint. I'm not completely sure of that, and don't want to spend any more time than I have to going through more old papers than this project has already demanded, but the book was certainly appropriate to the press's reemergence as a separate entity.


The survey of Rune I had in mind presented a host of problems. By far the biggest was editing a collection of pages which would represent the scope of visual language types and sources used throughout the work, include examples of some of the pieces we thought were the best, and give some sense of how the whole worked and what it could mean. At this time, Rune consisted of 382 pieces of which we could use perhaps a sixth.

Although one of the purposes of presenting a survey is simplifying a complex work as a means of introducing it, money was the most important factor in determining what we could do. Although Karl works on 8 1/2 x 11 inch paper, we decided early on that it would be best to do a standard size book not only to reduce costs but to make it easier for readers to fit it into their bookshelves. Beyond this, where to find the money was our next concern. I no longer had a printing press to produce it with, and couldn't do more with my photocopier than the little selections which had appeared previously, and did not give the reader a sense of the work as a whole. Karl and I could scrape some money out of our pockets, of course. Harry Polkinhorn, with whom I had worked on many projects, with whom I would continue to collaborate through the decade, and who had supported many visual poetry projects in many ways, agreed to act as co-publisher, putting in a certain amount of money in exchange for copies. Ruth and Marvin Sackner, the most generous patrons of visual poetry in the world, also put in a share. This gave us enough to work with.

I have commented on the book in my introduction to it. This introduction is on-line, and can be reached by the link at the bottom of the page. At the time we did the book, I had hopes that it would be partial preparation for a full edition of the work. I doubt that such an edition will be forthcoming in the near future, if ever. I won't be able to afford it, and trends don't seem to favor a project so ambitious. Small selections from the work continue to appear, however, and even though Karl has gone through his share of changes, this book remains the work that gives readers a place from which to orient themselves in relation to his work as a whole. It is also a good place to begin in trying to understand visual poetry in general. As such, it remains a major title in my list of publications, and I would like to think that the kind of poetry it presents and the kind of abilities Karl possesses will in time get the credit due to them.

Developments and Extensions Since the Survey

Computers hovered in the background of the books, particularly, though subtly, Fire + Water. Two lines of projects dependent on computers followed the publication of Rune: A Survey.

Despite the virtuosity he had acquired in using a typewriter, there were things he could not do with what he had, and the prospects of working with curves was something he would not want to miss. A computer became inevitable. Instead of moving into such main-stays of computer programs for visual poets as PhotoShop, Karl went for the FreeHand drawing program, and that is virtually the only graphics program he has used since. Part of his decision has to do with the fact that FreeHand is based on procedures that resemble hand drawing instead of photography. His first uses of the new tech were unimpressive, and as I more or less expected, it did take him several years of dedicated effort create a base for himself with new tools.

During this time, his thinking evolved along with his work on the computer. In 1994, he spent significant time in an ashram in India. After this, his work became less syncretic and, at its center, more oriented toward specifically Indian traditions. This is something to parse out carefully. He has not rejected other traditions or their images. When he works with them, he either shows more care in preserving their discrete character or in finding their common ground with the traditions that are now central to him. In some ways this makes the work of the last decade more simple; but, again, the word 'simple' has to be carefully construed. His Rose Windows, for instance, a series of devotions based on each of the letters of the alphabet, all working in large wheel patterns, feel lighter than many of the typewriter poems, and the concept behind them is less elaborate, but what I would call their "simplicity" comes from a greater clarity of attention rather than from a reduction in their significance or their interrelations of iconographic and symbolic sources.

At the time I published Fire + Water, Karl had stopped publishing Kaldron magazine. What he wanted to do was to turn it over to his stepdaughter, Amy Franceschini, and to me as co-editors. I don't think Amy had much interest in doing this, and I certainly didn't have the money to do it. It was something we discussed almost every week for several years, but to no immediate, practical purpose.

By the time he returned from India, I had made my first ventures in electronic publishing. However, these were the pre-web days when that meant either putting up the most completely unadorned and mercilessly alphabetic plain ascii texts in Bulletin Boards accessed by directly dialing from a modem, or retrieving such texts through the sober and austere ftp system. I joined John Ezra Fowler in the Grist Bulletin Board, and the electronic reincarnation of Grist magazine, another scrupulously non-graphic publication which arrived in people's e-mail boxes at regular intervals. Bear in mind that at this time most monitors were monochrome, most software had not yet developed a graphic user interface with its icons and other graphic features, and the majority of programs didn't use mice. This was a time of absolute textuality.

When the web became available for people who were not part of large institutions, it was by no means clear how graphic the medium could become. Early HTML [Hyper Text Mark-up Language] was almost as severe as ascii. You could not, for instance, do something as simple as center an image on a page or specify a background color. You could have text in proportionally spaced fonts. There was no code, however, to add more than one space between words. If you typed one or ten spaces between words on the copy you put on-line, it always came out with the same amount of space between the words. Classic caesurae such as those used in Old Norse poetry were impossible to achieve in this format. You could insert graphics, but had virtually no control over their position on the screen other than what preceded and what followed each image. Disk space was expensive, and if you had to pay for it yourself, you had to be careful of how many kilobytes each file took up. Although electronic technology still imposes limitations on resolution, the maximum quality of graphics files was extremely low, and difficult to achieve. Clearly, the early web had not been designed by artists or poets, but by people interested in such things as fighting nuclear wars and passing back and forth information for the most dour business purposes.

It took me about a year to decide whether or not I could present a significant amount of visual poetry on the web once I had begun my Light and Dust On-Line Anthology. When it became clear that I could do a decent job of putting visual poetry on-line, and do so in significant quantity, it simultaneously became clear that that's where Kaldron should find its new incarnation. Amy was working on the web in other areas, and didn't want to join me, but Karl was all for my reviving Kaldron On-Line.

Although I had been enthusiastic about Kaldron for decades, I also had a reservation which Karl and I had discussed for years. Kaldron was the world's premier visual poetry magazine, but it presented only visual poetry. Given my sense of the nature of poetry in general, and my understanding of how minority ghettoization works (separate is never equal), I wondered if keeping vis po segregated was the best strategy. My Light and Dust Anthology complex provided what seemed an ideal answer to this problem: Kaldron On-Line could be accessed alone by those interested in visual poetry only from its own menu. But everything in it could just as easily be accessed from the main Light and Dust menu. This created a situation that was not either/or, but both/and. There were reasons why some visual poetry didn't belong under the Kaldron imprint. This turned out to be no big deal, because I could list all of it at the end of the Kaldron menu.

Initially, we thought of starting the on-line version by digitizing work that had already appeared in the print version of the magazine. I did a bit of this, but it didn't take long to realize the limitations of this approach. What worked better was to contact those who had contributed to the print version of Kaldron and to start their sections over from scratch. We could thus include color images, commentary in multiple languages, and all sorts of features not possible in the print magazine's format. The print version had garnished enormous and global respect and admiration. This helped greatly in fostering cooperation with the poets whose work appeared in the on-line anthology. Kaldron was recreating itself in a new medium and at the same time moving into new areas.

Of the long arcs Karl's efforts have made since he first started meticulously observing the way strands of seaweed knotted on the shores of California and how that related to the petroglyphs of the Chumash Indians who had lived there before Euro-American colonization came within an ace of wiping them out, one of the most gratifying to me is how much this store of natural patterns, primary symbol systems, and traditional art contributed to the use of leading edge tech in the 1990s.

Click here to go to Kaldron On-Line

Click here to go to introductory essay on Kaldron and its historical position

Click here to go to Karl Young's Introduction to Karl Kempton's "Rune: A Survey"

Click here to go to selections from Fabelz and Kritterz off the Mother's Tongue by Karl Kempton

Click here to go to 4 Columns Supporting an Invisible World by Karl Kempton