If we were an artist, and one with first-rate budgets, we’d rent two identical buildings of about ten stories high, separated by a street. We’d find a way to cover the exterior of each to become massive, realistic human heads. They’d be staring at each other, poised to talk — and on occasion they would; but only basic, phatic phrases like, “how are you?” or “you look like you could use a vacation” or “you can say that again.” Somewhere in the neck of the “heads”, at street level, there would be a door. Visitors would be allowed to explore each building from top to bottom. Prior to installation the rooms would have been completely stripped of any furniture or decoration. In every space, whether lobby, bathroom, closet, conference room, duct or kitchen, would be installed a vast interconnected system of Rube Goldberg mechanisms. The sequences would employ all manner of material for the innumerable catalyzations: stegosaurus plates would swing on string braided from wolf spider silk tipping over 3rd century Persian helmets full of moth balls to overflow cans of Lamborghini oil to slick the covers of rare editions of “In Praise of Folly” so they could zip down angled Korean War ambulance stretchers setting off the spigots of small dollhouse fountains which resting on old newspapers from June 28, 1914 would break through prompting a catapult constructed of dried Nile reeds and so on and so forth. And when each of the 60,000+ part material successions reached their final motion it would induce gears to move the jaws of the giant noggins and bellow one of the 10 or 20 prosaic communications. Every utterance would require a ten story, 1,000 room chain of events. The piece would be called, “Your nose is an iceberg’s tip.” The two “heads” would be installed for about 80 years and then be taken apart to be used for various other projects.