Inner chaos, like those secret volcanoes which suddenly lift the neat furrows of a peacefully ploughed field, awaited behind all disorders of face, hair and costume, for a fissure through which to explode.
– Anaïs Nin, A Spy in the House of Love, 1954
This exhibition is in the same breath self-destructing and reviving–piecing together what’s left. It mourns; choking on the fumes of singed plastic waste. It scuttles; away from the rubble in search of halcyon estuaries.
Nightshades are mythologized to blossom only at night. In shadows and crevices they creep and shiver, opening themselves to the thick tenebrous air.