For these ports I could not draw a route on the map or set a date for the landing.
At times all I need is a brief glimpse, an opening in the midst of an incongruous landscape, a glint of light in the fog, the dialogue of two passersby meeting in the crowd, and I think that, setting out from there, I will put together, piece by piece, the perfect city, made of fragments mixed with the rest, of instants separated by intervals, of signals one sends out, not knowing who receives them. If I tell you that the city toward which my journey tends is discontinuous in space and time, now scattered, now more condensed, you must not believe the search for it can stop. Perhaps while we speak, it is rising, scattered, within the confines of your empire; you can hunt for it, but only in the way I have said.

— Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities (1972, p. 164)

I think this whole question of art is one of changing our minds
and that the function of the artist is not self-expression but self-alteration.

— John Cage, 1970 (Dickinson 2014, p. 198)