On her web site, Bachmann writes, “I am interested in the idea of tender, even pathetic, technology, to use technology for ends that are not necessarily productive in the usual sense of the word.” “The Portable Sublime,” her other piece in the show, is another illustration of this pursuit. Here the visitor is invited to open up seven vintage suitcases—a few inscribed with Bachmann’s father’s name—that rest on wooden tables. Upon opening the lid, each suitcase takes you to a wholly unexpected place, like travel itself. In one, a continuous waterfall descends down a translucent yellow plastic sheet until the lid is closed. Another is a small turquoise case with a wooden handle one can turn. A short illustrated story, titled “how to get to the sublime,” scrolls past. (One line reads: “The sublime should not feel like work.” It never does in this exhibition.) A third battered suitcase, seemingly the luggage of a travel-weary immigrant, bursts into nostalgic song as one opens it. Within, several small speakers float in a pool of water. “What you take with you . . . You also need to take the imagination with you,” Bachmann says.