Current / Past Exhibitions





What an indulgence it would be to smell the pheromonal scented breath of anyone but mine own!
Like a sweet, sick scented book
whose spine I’ve just cracked in embrace and lets out a mealy, orgastic, dusted mutter at the feel of being opened up once again.



Next to a vineyard in the West Bank, there is a Legousia flower and it is blooming today and from its ovule is born a breath. It follows the ridge of the Judean mountains and kisses the neck and down to the navel. The breath travels in the cold air of the atmosphere, the briskness provided by our disappearance, this journey can only be made when there is silence. Not quiet, but the rarefied impossible stillness in silence. The totally encompassed absence where there is no noise and the surrounding molecules have taken a pause. We allow them the brief moment of respite although we are no longer able to throw a voice and have it bounce off the sawtooth rocks of a cliffside, there is not even a throat to find withered or dried. These are the only conditions in which the breath can make the journey: rivers must briefly sit still so that the breath does not get lost nor engulfed, so that it can tumble along the surface. The moon must give the tides a rest for the acrobatics of genesis. And so travels the breath, 3,160km to the gurgling gaseous pit of a deserted loin, slips in, and releases an exhalation, a hum that vibrates the walls of Her gut. The soft palette lifts and the moan fills the space that had previously been left empty, the sound boils over, brimming with the quiver of her sex:

And from the breath, a baby is born!



I was having a conversation with a friend where I was trying to detangle thoughts about the seeming impending insurrection against the governance of our self-control, delimitations of l0v3, the perimeters or parameters of imaginable interrelation (socio-spatio-corporeo etc) and she said something to the effect of:

“I wonder if we sounded this optimistic during, like, the war in Iraq.”

And I was like... Well, I’m certain you didn’t... Because in the invisibility, the total permeability where we’re all susceptible to the penetration, there is something that looks a lot like unprecedented commonality in weakness: we are but only sheep herded for unusual slaughter or feeble wandering deer dying in the warmth of the day! Obviously, some people have fortified social or physical defenses, but this is not wartime solidarity. This is the kind of frenzied, sexy, horny, pan-ic solidarity that you see in horror films or alien invasion movies. I have heard people refer to the new conditions as surreal, but at times this is further from real than surreality... it is fantastic monstrosity altogether and yet (in Joe’s coronavirus scented words), more real than ever.

So, this is my proposal for a romancing of the virus. A voyage into the sensual, eroticization, the aesthetics, affect, sexiness, horniness of the virus or illness.



Now is a time for the saccharine, Indulgences like the yearning For a tree to blossom and Sprout its sugar in order to Reassure one of another year To be lived in an ecosystem That this tree outside of my window Will continue to deliver to its god, Its big, big organism.

An indulgence like sharing a coke or a bagel with sugary nut spread With you and everyone else.

Never have I felt so sweet, That’s alright

“The DOW has rallied more than 9% today,” I whisper to the dust on the petal because I think even it has a right to know.

Noon and now I’ll orchestrate that crunchy sonic distance: The symphonics and symmetry

of I of I of I of with you with you with you with out out out out out

Families of composers reorganizing whatever hush is left, Economists economizing economies of thoughts, We’ve lost the land but the land is verbal

“The DOW has rallied more than 9% today,” the dust on the petal whispers to me



A panic kiss in a slow, dormant light Mmm... Flicker! Patter, praise, permeate the Womb and locate the solace and,

Loss is slow.

Endure and rejoice,

Hark! Report message:

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

The woman in front of me in line at the key food turns to me and says

“If life is like this forever...”

And I’m urged towards the scalding, already charred wilderness of what? And then what? Will you scream? Will you rip your heart out of your chest? Where will we resort?

Instead I hear dribble out of me the soft cotton folding of “I know,” gesturing towards the distance between us. Our conversation ends just short of my saying,

It will not be like this forever 

Welcome to the Glass Menagerie, Courtesy of My Gorgeous and Broken Heart
Curated by Jess Spector
April 30 - May 27, 2020
Press Release