They are machines. Generative works: the longer you watch them, the more they fill with flows that irradiate them with colour. Nothing goes back. Only by reopening the work does it start again.
400 unique works. Each work holds 625 $BRUT — exactly one guaranteed free mint for THE ORDER. Max 10 per wallet: 6,250 $BRUT, ten works.
Free mint, guaranteed. Any later phase will be paid.
You can keep part of your $BRUT for future drops.
MACCHINA 000 — 020. They were the first and they keep the original value. Those collectors minted at $40 and $20, and they are already listed with their amount.
MINT ↓
With 625 $BRUT you get a guaranteed WL spot for a free mint, so anyone buying MACCHINA can claim a work, if they choose to spend their $BRUT.
Free for anyone who uses their $BRUT. You never burn MACCHINA: you simply send the $BRUT to the DAO. With 625, one MACCHINA, it happens automatically: your wallet is already on the WL. If you hold more, you connect your wallet and choose from the portal. Simple, and free.
A second phase for the holders of my collections and other selected collections, at $15, FCFS, after the public sale. Price in ETH. Marketplace: Transient.
Ten thousand faces, and none of them was drawn.
Every face is a mountain cut into contour lines. What you see is not the face: it is the dust settling where the surface bends, lighting up only where the light strikes edge-on. Everything else stays black. They are portraits made only of what protrudes.
An order is not a crowd. It is a hierarchy, and I did not invent this one: it was already written in the material.
What you are made of decides who you are. Some are gold, and the light slides over them without ever going out. Some are chrome, and reflect everything without holding anything. Some are mother-of-pearl, and change colour only if you move. And then there are those made of ash, with no surface at all: the light goes in and never comes back. Under the layer they keep an ember red, the last thing that has not gone out yet. Those made of soot do not even have that: only black, and the streaks where a hand went past.
How you are made decides your rank. The scribes have a face composed of characters and nothing underneath: they keep the register. The ancients are made of the finest dust and are crumbling as you watch them. And the extremes, 421 in all, are made beyond the limit: from far away a continuous mass, up close a world.
What you carry says your place. The crown is the head. The halo is the saint, or whoever believes they are one. The visor is the one who does not want to be seen, the chain is the bound, the bolted plate is the one who was put back together. The scar and the tear are the two marks nobody chooses: one you were given, the other you are still crying. Whoever carries nothing is a novice.
Gold is 121 pieces out of 10,000. Soot is 786. In between stand all the others, and that is exactly the point.