Library of Dust

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Maisel saw more than decay or mistreatment. Left to languish over time, the copper cans and their contents have literally erupted with color: marine blues, steely crimsons, salted grays and whites. Mineral crusts and burnished colors bleed gorgeously from the welded seams. 'I'm not a believer,' Maisel says soberly. 'But they have a kind of continuity . . . a sense that the individual is somehow continuing, even if it's in an inorganic state.' During Maisel's first visit to the hospital, as he considered the canisters' inhabitants, a young man on a cleanup crew sent in from a local penitentiary paused for a moment at the door and peered inside.

'The library of dust,' he whispered.

Maisel has since arranged three more trips to the hospital, each time spending several days photographing the canisters in natural light to avoid augmenting or altering the images. He is a careful archivist, cataloging the photos with respect to the numbers stamped into the lids (ranging from 01 to 5,118). The reverence with which he approaches the project has fostered a positive relationship with the hospital, which has mobilized on the heels of the Oregonian coverage to acknowledge its imperfect past as part of crafting a better future. The state is moving along with plans for a new facility, and the hospital has invited citizens to share ideas for a proper memorial for the remains.

In an essay about the project posted on his website, the artist articulates one vision of the library as a 'microcosm of the hospital itself': each canister assigned to a numbered shelf, analogous to indistinguishable rooms in partitioned wards-an emblem of the institutionalization of identity, in which names become numbers and personal details slip away. The canisters, however, seem to resist this loss, each eruption of color and crust suggesting an individual identity that's both ethereal and organic.

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