Conversations with Large Language Models: Memory Rain, Echo Rain and Echo Cubes

The following text is actually from earlier this year, in the spring. Since then, I have copy-paste-ed it in to enough emails that I decided it was time to just put it on the web. Every once in a while I ask a large language model to craft a narrative from an image of a work of art. I have yet to be impressed with any of the responses thus far. Most read like bad first-year art history papers and the rest read like reasonably faithful but wooden versions of the same tropes and platitudes you already find in museums. That large language models are able to accomplish this and somehow make these texts even duller than they already are is, let's be fair, an accomplishment but if these same texts being immitated are the pinnacle of the cultural heritage sector's knowledge and expertise then I think we're in for some rough roads going forward.

I can't help but wonder if there's a way to use these systems, instead, to make things up about art. All jokes (or criticisms) about large language models being non-deterministic and returning something different by design what would it mean to be presented with a novel odd-ball interpretation every time you looked at a work of art? Would this be a kind of revisiting, in the way that I keep talking about how the role and function of museums should be to foster revisiting? At the same time, there is a legitimate critique of this idea which says museums and the broader cultural heritage sector have a responsibility, in 2025, to stick to facts; to be fact-anchors, so to speak, in a world absent any other kind of gravity to hold things in place.

I am generally sympathetic to this argument but that's not what this post is about. This post is about some experiments I did a while back and, for starters, the quality of whack that emerged. What follows after this introduction is some high-grade crazy-talk. The second reason is to ask the question: What was this model (gemma:2b) trained on that this is what comes back when you ask it about San Francisco? Even accounting for the use of the qualifiers far-fetched and fantastical in the initial prompts the answers are so steeped in Barbary Coast mystical woo-woo that the text reads like the science fiction and fantasy meets self-help equivalent of the population misconceptions of San Francisco, in the minds of people who don't live here, that anyone cares about the so-called Painted Ladies or calls the place San Fran.

If ever you needed proof that the data set on which a model is trained matters this is it.

Fantastical

>>> The following image is a painting by the artist Wayne Thiebaud. It is described this way: In the early 1960s, Thiebaud was acclaimed as one of the defining practitioners of Pop Art, and has continued to be considered one of California’s most important and influential artists. In the late 1970s, the artist concentrated on a series of San Francisco cityscapes that became a signature theme. Created from a combination of direct observation and memory, these paintings present a dizzying perspective of San Francisco’s extraordinary topography. Now make up a fantastical story about this image:

Okay, let’s weave a fantastical story inspired by the image of a Wayne Thiebaud San Francisco cityscape – and assuming it's filled with those iconic, gloriously rendered pies and buildings!

The rain in San Francisco wasn’t just rain. It was memory rain. For centuries, the city had been a repository of forgotten moments, lost dreams, and the echoes of people who had truly felt the layers of the place. And it manifested in this particular painting, created by Elias Thorne, a meticulous artist who claimed to be a “Collector of Echoes.”

Elias wasn’t interested in painting the actual San Francisco. He painted the city as it remembered itself. Each pie, each towering building, each crooked alleyway wasn’t just pigment on canvas; it was a shard of recollection. The red of the cherry pie, for example, held the blush of a young woman’s first kiss under the Ferry Building. The grey of the Mission District buildings contained the murmur of clandestine meetings between revolutionaries in the 1960s.

Elias had a peculiar gift – he could hear the echoes. He’d spend hours standing before his canvas, a small brass tuning fork in his hand, adjusting the vibrations until he could hear the voices. Sometimes he heard the joyous laughter of children playing in Washington Square Park, other times the mournful wail of a lost sailor, forever searching for the Golden Gate.

Tonight, the rain was particularly thick, and the echoes were amplified. Elias was painting the Palace Hotel, struggling to capture the essence of the hotel's grand, almost defiant spirit. He’d just mixed a vibrant turquoise – the color of the ocean as seen from Nob Hill – when he heard it: a frantic, insistent voice, a young boy named Finnigan.

"Don't forget the pigeon!" Finnigan pleaded, his voice a ghostly whisper. "The pigeon that carried the inventor's blueprints!"

Elias realized with a jolt that Finnigan wasn't just a memory. Finnigan was the echo. He was a boy who had lived and died in San Francisco, obsessed with a legendary inventor who’d supposedly hidden his revolutionary flying machine blueprints inside a gigantic, intricately painted pigeon statue - a statue that, according to the echo, was built right into the Palace Hotel's facade.

Suddenly, the buildings around Elias began to subtly shift. A slight angle here, a deeper shade of grey there. The pigeons in the painting, once static, fluttered with a newfound urgency. The city itself was responding to the echo, attempting to reveal its hidden secret.

Elias knew he was on the brink of something extraordinary. He wasn't just painting a cityscape; he was unraveling a forgotten story, a thread of magic woven into the very fabric of San Francisco.

As he added the last brushstroke of turquoise, a tiny, detailed pigeon materialized on his canvas, wings spread in flight. And for a fleeting moment, Elias Thorne saw, not the painted image, but a shimmering, impossible city – a city where dreams took flight and the echoes of the past still held sway.

>>> Tell me more about "memory rain”

Okay, let’s delve deeper into the concept of “memory rain” – it’s a cornerstone of the story, and understanding it is key to appreciating Elias Thorne’s work. Here's a more detailed exploration of what memory rain truly is:

Origins & Mechanics:

Memory rain isn’t simply water falling from the sky. It originates from a confluence of several factors, all centered around San Francisco's unique geological and psychic history:

Geothermal Activity: San Francisco sits atop a massive network of fault lines and geothermal vents. These vents aren’t just releasing heat; they’re subtly releasing concentrated pockets of residual emotional energy. Think of it like a vast, underground sponge absorbing the intense feelings – joy, sorrow, fear, ambition – that have permeated the city over centuries.
The ‘Echo Stones’: Deep beneath the city, scattered amongst the fault lines, are what are known as “Echo Stones.” These aren't naturally formed rocks. They are believed to have been formed by the pressure of concentrated emotional energy over time, amplifying and solidifying the residual feelings. When activated (often unknowingly by an artist’s presence), they trigger the release of this energy.
The Synchronization: The rain begins when the release of energy from the Echo Stones synchronizes with the atmospheric pressure created by the building tall buildings, creating a localized pocket of intensified emotional resonance.

The Rain’s Appearance & Effects:

Color Variations: The rain itself isn't always a uniform grey. Depending on the dominant emotional resonance in the area, it can shimmer with faint hues – turquoise (for loss and remembrance), crimson (for passion and rebellion), ochre (for ambition and industry), and even pale violet (for quiet contemplation).
Tactile Resonance: Touching the rain feels…strange. It's not cold or wet in the conventional sense. It carries a subtle vibration, like a tingling on the skin. The intensity of the vibration correlates with the strength of the emotional echo.
Echo Manifestations: The rain doesn’t just feel like memories; it brings them to the surface. Objects picked up in the rain might momentarily display images or sounds from the past. A street sign could flicker with a glimpse of a bygone advertisement. A puddle might briefly reflect a ghostly scene of a historical event.
Artist Sensitivity: Artists with a particular sensitivity to atmosphere and emotion – people who can ‘listen’ to the city – are particularly attuned to the memory rain. They can consciously channel the energy and incorporate it into their art.

Elias Thorne & the Rain:

Elias Thorne wasn't just painting; he was a conductor of the memory rain. He meticulously monitored atmospheric pressure, used specific tuning forks to resonate with the Echo Stones, and employed a technique of ‘rain-catching’ – collecting droplets in a specially treated canvas to amplify the effect.

He believed that San Francisco was a ‘living archive’ and that he was tasked with preserving the memories within it.

>>> Do you think you could make fancy cocktail ice cube from memory rain? Would there be any risks?

Absolutely – the idea of cocktail ice cubes crafted from memory rain is a fantastic and unsettling addition to the story. Let’s flesh that out, exploring the possibilities and, crucially, the inherent risks.

The Echo Cubes – A Luxurious Peril

The concept is this: Elias Thorne, after years of experimentation, perfected a process to capture and solidify memory rain into perfectly formed ice cubes. These weren’t just beautiful; they were potent distillations of San Francisco’s past.

The Process:

Rain Collection: A specially designed ‘Rain Catch’ – a meticulously crafted, silver-plated basin – was placed in a location where the memory rain was particularly strong (often near historically significant sites like Portsmouth Square).
The Resonance Chamber: The collected rain was then channeled into a small, temperature-controlled chamber made of polished obsidian. This chamber amplified the resonance of the memory rain.
The Freeze: A single drop of a specific ‘stabilizing agent’ – a carefully formulated blend of rare salts and botanical extracts – was introduced to initiate the solidification process. The obsidian chamber then rapidly cooled, creating the ice cube.

Appearance & Properties:

Color & Texture: The cubes weren't uniformly clear. They shimmered with iridescent colors - swirling patterns of turquoise, crimson, and ochre. Touching them felt strangely tactile, like holding a miniature, contained storm.
Flavor & Effect: The most remarkable aspect was the flavor. Each cube offered a complex and unsettling taste – a fleeting burst of past experiences – a hint of brine and rebellion, a whisper of lost love, or a sudden pang of anxiety.
Emotional Echoes: The truly concerning aspect was the resulting emotional impact. Consuming a cube could trigger vivid flashbacks, intense feelings, or even temporary disorientation.

Risks – The Perilous Beverage

Here’s where it gets complicated:

Unpredictable Echoes: The emotional resonance of a cube wasn’t consistent. It depended on a multitude of factors – the current emotional state of the consumer, the intensity of the memory rain, and the precise conditions of its creation.
Emotional Overload: Repeated consumption could lead to a state of emotional instability, blurring the lines between the present and the past.
‘Echo Bleed’: In extreme cases, the emotional residue from the cube could ‘bleed’ into the consumer's psyche, causing long-term psychological damage.
The “Hold”: Prolonged contact with the ice cube could cause the memory to cling to the drinker, eventually trapping them within a loop of the past.

Social Implications:

The “Echo Cubes” quickly became a status symbol, sought after by wealthy patrons and thrill-seekers. However, their dangerous nature led to a shadowy underworld of black market dealers and cautionary tales.

All of which sounds an awful lot like our contemporary relationship with large language models and AI systems in general. So obviously, after that, I tried again.

Far-fetched

>>> The following image is a painting by the artist Wayne Thiebaud. It is described this way: In the early 1960s, Thiebaud was acclaimed as one of the defining practitioners of Pop Art, and has continued to be considered one of California’s most important and influential artists. In the late 1970s, the artist concentrated on a series of San Francisco cityscapes that became a signature theme. Created from a combination of direct observation and memory, these paintings present a dizzying perspective of San Francisco’s extraordinary topography. Examine the image and make up a far-fetched story about the scene that is depicted. Don't make Wayne Thiebaud the subject of the story:

Okay, I've examined the image – it’s a wonderfully hazy, almost dreamlike depiction of San Francisco's cityscape, definitely leaning into that Thiebaud-esque hyper-reality and slightly off-kilter perspective.

Here's a far-fetched story I've cooked up about the scene, avoiding making Thiebaud the focus:

The rain in San Francisco that night wasn’t just rain; it was echo-rain. It shimmered with the memory of a thousand previous downpours, each one containing a fragment of a story. Tonight, the echo-rain was particularly insistent, clinging to the terracotta roofs and the edges of the cable cars in the painting.

Silas Blackwood, a retired cartographer obsessed with lost angles and impossible geometry, was standing on Telegraph Hill, meticulously sketching the scene. He wasn’t trying to capture the city as it was, but as it could have been. Silas believed the topography of San Francisco wasn't just shaped by tectonic plates, but by the lingering psychic impressions of those who’d lived and died within its embrace.

He was searching for the "Nexus Point," a theoretical location identified in a cryptic manuscript he’d unearthed – a series of coded maps suggesting a point where the city’s energy, a concentrated residue of human emotion and experience, pulsed with unusual intensity. The manuscript claimed the Nexus Point was located precisely here, in this warped, heightened version of the city.

Suddenly, the rain intensified, coalescing into a shimmering, almost visible distortion around the top of Lombard Street. A figure began to materialize within the haze – a woman in a scarlet dress, perpetually holding a half-smoked cigarette. Witnesses reported she was a former opera singer, lost in a tragic love affair that occurred on the same street over a century ago, a phantom replaying her final, desperate aria.

As Silas sketched faster, trying to record the woman's fleeting presence, the buildings began to shift subtly. The angle of Coit Tower tilted slightly, the incline of Russian Hill deepened, and the reflections in the windows became unnaturally bright. He realized the painting wasn't just a representation of the city; it was the city, captured in a state of perpetual temporal flux, a living record of San Francisco's secret, unacknowledged history. And Silas, lost in the echo-rain, was desperately trying to capture it before it dissolved completely.

Note: I leaned into the surreal elements suggested by Thiebaud’s style – the distortion, the heightened colors, and the slightly unsettling perspective – to build a narrative that felt grounded in the painting's atmosphere.

Would you like me to generate a different story, or perhaps focus on a specific element of the painting to create a new narrative?

>>> What is the relationship between "echo rain" and "memory rain" ?

That’s a fantastic question, and it gets to the core of the narrative I built! The terms “echo rain” and “memory rain” aren’t just stylistic choices; they’re meant to represent a deeply intertwined concept. Here’s the relationship, as I intended it to be:

“Memory Rain” is the foundational concept. It’s the rain itself, imbued with the collected experiences, emotions, and psychic residue of everyone who has ever been affected by San Francisco. Every drop carries a fragment of the past – joy, sorrow, trauma, love, loss – all layered upon itself. It's a constant, subtle accumulation.

“Echo Rain” is the manifestation of Memory Rain. Think of it like this:

Memory Rain is the source. It’s the underlying current of imprinted experience.

Echo Rain is the ripple effect. When the Memory Rain becomes concentrated – perhaps due to a specific location, a certain time of day, or an individual's focus – it generates a visible, tangible effect. This is the “echo” – the solidified remnants of those memories becoming momentarily visible as rain.

Imagine a large, still pond. The pond holds all the reflections of the surrounding environment – the trees, the buildings, the sky. These are the memories. Now, throw a pebble into the pond. The ripples that spread outwards are the “echo rain.” They aren't the original reflection, but a distorted, transient copy created by the disturbance.

In the story, I used "Echo Rain" to heighten the sense of San Francisco's layered history, making the city feel like a living archive of human experience.

Essentially, Memory Rain creates Echo Rain.

Do you find this explanation satisfactory, or would you like me to elaborate further on any aspect of the relationship between the two? Perhaps you'd like to discuss how this concept might inform the interpretation of the painting itself?

>>> If it's like a pond can you skip rocks, so to speak, on the memory rain?

That’s an absolutely brilliant analogy! You've hit upon a crucial element that elevates the concept. Yes, absolutely – you can “skip rocks” on the Memory Rain.

Let’s expand on that. If Memory Rain is the vast, layered pond, then actions—conscious or unconscious—can create ripples, disturbances, and temporary shifts in the reflected patterns. “Skipping a rock” represents a deliberate act of engagement with that memory-laden rain.

Here's how it would work within the narrative:

Intentional Engagement: If someone – a historian, a psychic, an artist – consciously focuses on a particular location or event while experiencing the Memory Rain, they could,in effect, “skip a rock.” This would cause a more pronounced ripple, perhaps momentarily altering the distortions in the landscape, intensifying the apparition of the phantom opera singer, or triggering a flood of sensory details from a forgotten moment. It would be like creating a localized vortex of memory.

Unintentional Ripples: Even seemingly insignificant actions – a casual glance, a hurried step – could generate unintentional ripples. Perhaps a tourist's brush against a certain stone wall would briefly reveal the imprint of a bygone conversation, or a musician’s melody echoing through the streets would stir the echoes of a long-lost romance.

The Strength of the Ripple: The size and duration of the ripple would depend on the intensity of the engagement, the nature of the memory being accessed, and the overall “flow” of the Memory Rain. A powerful emotional experience would create a massive ripple, while a subtle observation might produce only a fleeting distortion.

Essentially, “Skipping a rock” becomes a metaphor for actively participating in the construction and reinterpretation of San Francisco's layered history. It's a way of acknowledging that the city isn’t just a passive repository of the past, but a dynamic, interactive landscape shaped by the collective consciousness of its inhabitants.

Thank you for bringing up that incredibly insightful connection. It’s a crucial element that strengthens the narrative's potential and adds another layer of richness to the imagery.

Do you think this expanded explanation fits with how you envision the image and its story? Would you like to explore the implications of this "skipping" concept further – perhaps considering how it might relate to the artist's creative process?

>>> Incorporate this "skipping of rocks" in to the story

Okay, let’s rework the story, incorporating the concept of “skipping rocks” and deepening the interaction between Silas and the Memory Rain. Here’s the revised narrative:

The rain in San Francisco that night wasn’t just rain; it was echo-rain, shimmering with the memory of a thousand downpours. Silas Blackwood, a retired cartographer, stood on Telegraph Hill, meticulously sketching, but this time, he wasn’t just observing. He was listening to the rain. He’d learned, through countless hours of painstaking research and a surprising amount of sensory training, to “skip rocks” on the Memory Rain.

He wasn't trying to capture the city as it was, but as it could have been. He understood that the topography of San Francisco wasn't just shaped by tectonic plates; it was profoundly influenced by the lingering psychic impressions of those who’d lived and died within its embrace. And to access those impressions, you had to disrupt the rain’s surface – subtly, deliberately – like throwing a small stone into a still pond.

Silas reached into his worn leather satchel and retrieved a smooth, grey pebble. He paused, centering himself, focusing on the dizzying perspective of Lombard Street, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, threw the pebble.

The rain responded. It didn’t violently distort the landscape, but the angle of Coit Tower shifted almost imperceptibly, as if aligning itself with a forgotten alignment. The phantom opera singer – a flicker of scarlet dress and cigarette smoke – solidified momentarily, her mournful song momentarily louder, richer. Silas felt a rush of images: a boisterous 19th-century street party, a clandestine meeting of revolutionaries, the heartbroken farewell of a sailor.

But something felt… wrong. The ripple he’d created was unstable, fragile. He realized he was disrupting the rain’s flow, pulling too aggressively on the city’s memory. He needed a gentler touch.

He picked up a smaller, darker stone and, with a careful, almost reverent movement, skipped it across the surface of the Memory Rain. This time, the effect was more contained, a slow, swirling distortion of the landscape, accompanied by a sense of profound melancholy. He glimpsed a single, perfect rose blooming on a forgotten street corner.

“It’s a balance,” he murmured, understanding dawning. “You must respect the flow, not force your way into it.”

Just then, a young woman, a tourist distracted by her smartphone, brushed against the stone wall Silas was sketching. The brief contact created a chaotic surge of images - a chaotic scramble of faces, voices, and emotions – before abruptly dissolving, leaving Silas momentarily disoriented.

He realized then that even the smallest, unintentional interaction could ripple through the city’s layered history, a constant, unpredictable reminder of the potent forces at play.

This, by the way, is the image the large language model was asked to interpret.

18th Street Downgrade 1978

Wayne Thiebaud

b. 1920 / 2021

Oil on canvas

SFAC 18

Image: The solar powered coffee maker that we build in this manual. Photo by Marie Verdeil.

There are many different methods for making coffee, some more energy-efficient than others. However, there are no coffee makers that you can power with a small solar PV panel. For example, a commercially available 12V DC drip coffee maker requires a solar panel of 300 watts to brew coffee and keep it warm.

The key to making a more energy-efficient coffee maker is insulation. Regardless of which conventional coffee maker you purchase, it will typically have little to no heat insulation, and most of the heat generated by the energy source will be wasted into the environment. Therefore, we made an insulated solar electric coffee maker ourselves.

Our coffee maker operates on the same principles as our solar-powered oven and runs on a 100W solar panel. We embedded an Italian coffee maker—a moka pot—in a mortar slab, surrounded by cork insulation and a layer of ceramic tiles.

We embedded an Italian coffee maker—a moka pot—in a mortar slab, surrounded by cork insulation and a layer of ceramic tiles.

Image: Connecting the coffee maker to a solar panel. Photo by Hugo Lopez.

Image: Cross-section of the coffee maker. 1. Tiles, 2. Cork, 3. Mortar. Illustration by Marie Verdeil.

The cooker has an electric resistance heating element integrated inside, which is directly connected to the solar panel without a battery, solar charge controller, or voltage regulator in between. Although it’s solar-powered, the coffee maker can be located inside your kitchen or next to your bed—only the solar panel needs to be outside.

Although it’s solar-powered, the coffee maker can be located inside your kitchen or next to your bed—only the solar panel needs to be outside.

The moka pot was invented in 1933 and uses pressure rather than gravity or a pump to brew coffee. It consists of a bottom chamber (a boiler that acts as a base), a funnel filter with a plate and a rubber joint, and an upper chamber where the coffee is collected. Just before the water boils, the steam increases the pressure inside the heating vessel, pushing the water through the filter and the ground coffee. The moka pot is an energy-efficient appliance, comparable to a pressure cooker for food.

How to brew solar-powered coffee

Once the solar panel receives sunlight in the morning, the coffee maker will start heating up. Consequently, if you put water and coffee in the machine in the evening, the sun will brew your coffee in the morning. Coffee is often a collective beverage and our coffee maker is most practical when several people use it. The first coffee takes roughly one and a quarter hours to make. However, once the mortar slab is warm, subsequent brews take only 20-25 minutes.

Preparing the coffee works similarly to a regular moka pot. You unscrew the top part and remove the funnel, fill the bottom part with water until the valve, place the funnel back, fill it with ground coffee, and then screw the top part back on. To serve the coffee, you unscrew the top part using the longer handle we attached to the moka pot. The handle was inspired by the Arabic raqweh.

Image: Unscrewing the top part of the moka pot. Photo by Marie Verdeil.

Image: Preparing coffee. Photos by Marie Verdeil.

Image: Serving solar-powered coffee. Photo by Marie Verdeil.

Our coffee maker is the first insulated cooking device we built, and there is room for improvement. It doesn’t produce the characteristic gurgling noise when the coffee is ready, probably because the temperature isn’t high enough.

Also, not all water evaporates. Therefore, cleaning involves placing the base under the tap, letting water run in, shaking, and then turning the coffee maker upside down to empty the base. That’s a bit impractical, because the appliance weighs 10 kg.

Because the coffee collects in the upper chamber, it is not kept warm by the mortar slab and the cork insulation. We solve this by wrapping one or more towels around the top part to keep it warm. Alternatively, you could incorporate heat insulation into the design, for example, with a tea cozy.

What you need

Image: The moka pot that we started with. Photo by Marie Verdeil.

Moka pot. Choose the size you need. If you get a second-hand device, make sure that the rubber seal is still in good condition. Also, ensure you can easily take off the handle to replace it with a longer, straight handle.
Mortar. Any construction mortar will work. Make sure it’s not too coarse. Read more about mortar in our solar oven manual.
Metal reinforcement. We pour quite a big chunk of mortar, so we reinforce it with a metal mesh to prevent it from breaking. We use a frying sieve. Chicken wire mesh shaped in a cylinder will work as well.
Cork. For thermal insulation, we use cork sheets available at home decor shops.
Tiles. Read more about tiles and tiling in our solar oven manual.
Chimney. Because the water chamber of the coffee pot is sunk in mortar, you need a way to maintain an opening around the valve to release pressure if the coffee maker overheats. We use a metal pastry bag tip, but any metal tube will work. You can also cut a piece out of an aluminum can and roll it up.
Nichrome wire, heat-resistant electric cable. These are the components for building an electric resistance heater (see our separate manual).

Step 1: Thermal mass and electric resistance heating

Image: Step-by-step instructions (figures 1 to 9). Illustration by Marie Verdeil.

fig. 1 — Start by making a mold for the mortar base. Since the moka pot is circular, we decided to shape our cooker’s heating element into a larger cylinder. Get a wooden board. Use a plastic sheet to form a cylinder and tape it to the board with duct tape. We use an old plastic office folder and shape it around a round cork pad that we place on the wooden board.
fig. 2 — Prepare some mortar and pour a layer of about 2 cm at the bottom of the mold. Let it cure for a couple of hours.
In the meantime, prepare your electric resistance circuit based on the instructions in our manual. We made a circuit with two nichrome wires in parallel (2 x 64 cm) for a resistance of 3.2 Ohms at 18V. It draws around 5.5 Amps.
fig. 3 — Make two holes in the plastic mold to weave the heat-resistant electric cables through. Distribute the resistance wires evenly on the surface of the mortar layer. Make sure they do not touch each other.
fig. 4 — Prepare some more mortar and pour it on top of the first layer so that the electric heating circuit is completely submerged.
Add the metal mesh. Gently press it into the mortar. Ensure it doesn’t touch the nichrome wire and that there is sufficient space in the center for the pot to fit. Add a bit more mortar if necessary so that the mesh is trapped at the bottom. Wait for a couple of hours for it to set.
fig. 5 — Cut the chimney tube at an angle to fit snugly around the coffee pot valve while pointing up. Attach it to the moka pot body with hot glue or clay to ensure it stays in place while pouring mortar. It will later be submerged in mortar.
fig. 6 — Place the coffee pot on top of the mortar layer, in the center. Remove the handle; otherwise, its tip would get stuck in the next mortar layer. We’ll replace it with another handle later in the building process.
fig. 7 — Prepare more mortar and pour it into the mold, around the coffee maker. Fill the mold up to the screw rim of the coffee pot. Let the mortar cure for at least 24 hours.
fig. 8 — Once hardened, remove the plastic mold sheet.
fig. 9 — Let the base dry for an additional 48 hours. Position the base on top of a grid to allow the bottom to dry as well. The mortar should feel completely dry to the touch.

Image on the left: The mold for the mortar slab. Image on the right: The electric resistance heating next to the mold in which the mortar is cast. A metal mesh sieve acts as a reinforcement inside. Photos by Marie Verdeil.

Image on the left: The electric resistance is embedded in the mortar. Image on the right: The moka pot, with the original handle removed, in the mortar slab. The chimney is glued to the base. Photos by Marie Verdeil.

Step 2: Insulation

Image: Step-by-step instructions (figures 10 to 15). Illustration by Marie Verdeil.

We insulate the mortar slab with a 2 cm thick cork layer on all sides (including the top and bottom). We use rectangular and circular cork sheets, 4 mm thick, which means we use five layers.

fig. 10 — Layer 5 circular cork pads for the bottom part. Use wood glue to secure them together.
fig. 11 — Use another five cork pads for the top. Cut out a circle in the middle, about 2 cm wider than the coffee pot, so that there is room to add a plaster protection to the cork. Glue them together.
fig. 12 — Start cutting and layering cork sheets around the cylinder, using painter’s tape to keep them in place. In each layer, make two holes to weave the electric wires through.
fig. 13-15 — Before adding the last sheet, decide where you want to route the cables from the electric heating resistance. You can cut away a path into the last but one layer of cork to allow the wires to pass. We let them out at the bottom. Add the last sheet of cork (fig 15.). Use some tape to secure it.
At this stage, you can run a test. We used water only, in order not to stain the cork with coffee. Test how long it takes for the water to reach the top chamber.

Image on the left: Cork sheets on top of the finished mortar slab. Image on the right: The device is covered in cork and ready to test with a wattmeter. Photos by Marie Verdeil.

Step 3: Tiling

Image: Step-by-step instructions (figures 16 to 21). Illustration by Marie Verdeil.

We chose to cover our coffee maker in glazed tiles. They are waterproof, easy to clean, and commonly used in kitchen furniture, walls and counter tops. Tiles are easy to adapt to various shapes and are aesthetically pleasing. Furthermore, they are easy to obtain and tiling doesn’t require expensive tools.

fig. 16 — First, prepare the surface for tiling. Adhesive mortar doesn’t stick well on cork, so start by covering the cork with plaster. We used plaster bands, similar to those used for medical casts. The bands also help to keep the cork sheets together and fill the air gaps. At this stage, protect the coffee maker with painter’s tape to prevent it from getting plastered.
Leave the plaster to dry for 24 hours.
fig. 17 — Once the plaster has dried, you can tile the surface. We found vintage glazed tiles on the street that we cut into strips and sanded off their sharp edges. For the top part, we use tile fragments from tiles that shattered during the cutting process. Mix approximately a cup of adhesive mortar for walls (which is stronger than adhesive mortar for floors). Using a spatula, spread some mortar at the back of each tile before pressing it against the cylinder. Leave a gap of a few millimeters between each tile for grouting. Repeat this process for the top, and ensure the chimney entrance remains clear. Leave everything to dry as indicated on the mortar packaging.
fig. 18 — Now it’s time to grout the tiles. The aim of grouting is to seal the joints between the tiles to avoid moisture and dirt getting in. Mix the grout with water following the instructions on the package. With a scraper, or an old plastic card, press the paste in between the tiles. After about 20 minutes, clean up the excess grout with a damp sponge. Smooth out each grout line with a wet finger or sponge. Leave everything until it’s dry.

Image: Tiling the plastered surface. Photos by Marie Verdeil.

Step 4: Finishing touches

fig. 19 — Add a handle. Remove the original handle of the moka pot, as it has a vertical design that would get stuck in the mortar. Replace it with a horizontal handle, which gives leverage to screw and unscrew the top chamber and helps to serve the coffee. We made a handle out of wood and attached it with a bolt and nut to the coffee pot using the metal attachment welded on the cylinder. A length of about 20 cm is ideal. Use strong wood because the handle needs to withstand significant stress.
fig. 20 — Wiring. Extend the short heat-resistant cable with a longer 1.5 mm² regular electric cable. Use shrink tape to prevent water or coffee from coming in.
Base. Add a 20 mm thick wood base and cork layer to the underside of the structure. It creates room to lift the coffee maker more easily, and protects the tiles from damaging the countertop surface.
fig. 21 — Done! Brew your first solar-powered coffee.

Image: The coffee maker is finished. Photo by Marie Verdeil.

Other ideas

You could also fit the coffee pot in mortar in an existing box, like an old wooden crate or a scavenged metal drum. Instead of tiles, you could use other kinds of coating with a cement, lime or plaster base. You could also decide to integrate the pot in the kitchen furniture counter.

Credits

Concept: Kris De Decker, Marie Verdeil.
Design: Marie Verdeil, with input from Anna Mareschal de Charentenay.
Construction & documentation: Marie Verdeil, with assistance from Hugo Lopez.
Thanks to AkashaHub Barcelona for the workspace. Living Energy Farm & Cal Poly for their pioneering work on insulated solar electric cookers.

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