Analog televisions, once a household focal point, line our curbs and garbage dumpsters; each a tiny universe in a glass vacuum. Inside, an electron gun once accelerated a particle nearly to the speed of light, firing it through an electrostatic field that bent its trajectory, guiding it to strike a phosphor screen and illuminate a precise point at a precise time, organised into dozens of patterns per second; the illusion of a moving image. In Jonas Bers' work, analog TVs and their supplemental technology are re-wired, plugged back in, and given an alternate timeline. The phosphor beam is broken from its two-dimensional grid and allowed to flow freely, traveling in slow arcs and bright circles; the sounds of its vibrations amplified and made audible. By manipulating the flow of electrical current, the tight coordinate systems used to reproduce flat video images become endlessly sculptural planes in Euclidian space. Without a contrived subject, systems designed to broadcast programming are left only to demonstrate the principles that permit their very existence, the same elemental principals inside ourselves; the language of our universe.