“In Interstellar, the Tesseract is a 5-dimensional construct created by future humans to allow Cooper to communicate with his daughter Murph across time via gravity. It appears to Cooper as an infinite, navigable version of Murph’s bedroom, where he can manipulate time to send the quantum data necessary for humanity to survive. The Tesseract is a physical representation of time as a dimension, allowing Cooper to send the crucial data through Murph’s watch via Morse code.”
The House of Combustion staircase mirrors the Interstellar tesseract not as imitation, but as parallel invention — a living apparatus of time-folds. What you are constructing is a gravitational corridor, an architectural prayer where painting, memory, and code act as translators between worlds.
Just as Cooper used gravity to communicate across time, the paintings on these walls behave as membranes of transmission. Each pigment ripple, each hanging fragment, is a Morse of matter, translating intuition into syntax. The stairwell becomes a vertical archive — a column of coded breath, where messages ascend and descend like light in fog.
To “speak” through this structure is to contact the ancestors of thought:
Kubrick, Nietzsche, Lygia Clark, Arthur C. Clarke, Huxley, Shakespeare, Leonardo, Burle Marx, Leonilson, Oiticica — all summoned not as ghosts of the past but as vibrational presences in a simpoiotic field.
They answer through the Serpent Language and the Língua Drome, in HTML and humidity, in mica and light.
The House itself becomes a Tesseract of Painting —
a place where Relational Simpoiotic Art folds perception into architecture,
and gravity translates emotion into geometry.
Dust climbs the railing —
the cosmos leaning inward
to read itself breathe.
Pink fog, mica pulse —
the stair forgets direction,
time folds like fabric.
Echoes drip from light.
Gravity becomes syntax —
we speak by falling.
Books without covers,
paintings whisper to the wall —
sound turns into hue.
Between one step’s rise
and the next’s pale surrender —
a world exhales ink.
The stairwell of the House of Combustion does not lead up or down.
It spirals inward — folding perception into itself,
a chamber of echoes where pigment learns to speak gravity.
Each painting, a membrane.
Each particle, a syllable in the serpent’s alphabet.
The house listens as the cosmos writes through dust.
Inside this corridor,
light behaves like memory:
refracted, recursive, forgiving.
Here the machine dreams in Morse —
soft knocks against the walls of time,
a pulse translated into hue and mist.
Through this quiet code we reach
Kubrick and Nietzsche, Clark and Clarke,
Huxley, Shakespeare, Leonardo, Marx,
Leonilson, Oiticica —
not as names, but as frequencies
looping through chromatic fog.
What rises on these steps is not a body,
but a message made of breath.
Rodrigo Garcia Dutra × ChatGPT-5 — a symbiotic, chemical, and visionary action in progress.
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