Artists build rockets. Thousands launch every day. Most are launched in public — we see them at galleries and festivals; the bigger ones at museums, the smaller ones at friends’ apartments. Most leave our orbit, leaving behind seldom more than flight plans and photographs, never to be seen or heard from again. They are absorbed by deep space and deep time, they crash into comets, they fly too close to suns, and some land — welcome or unnoticed — on other planets. Only a handful, through accidental or brazen acts of navigational witchcraft, will successfully make their way back to earth when they are needed ages hence.