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CONTAINERS

Dollar store containers bound together, the a priori state of unnatural largesse; "The body can be a convenient place to store things," she said, and she roped off her wrists to create a kind of sack.

He had his head in a trash bag because it helped him breathe. "Makes the air more manageable," though it sounded like choking to me. "Sometimes," he motioned to the sky," I can feel the weight of the atmosphere. And I don't feel safe when I'm outside. It's like the whole thing could come crashing down any moment. You know what I mean?"

We were in New York City on someone's roof waiting for the sun to rise. Tony had passed out behind Kate, and to stay awake she was pulling these stupid little pranks on him, like taking out his wallet and shifting cards around, writing fortunes on his dollar bills and braiding the ends of his hair. Kid was fast asleep, I was slowly gathering trash in a pile, and when the sun finally did come up we were all looking in different directions.

Treat me with the utmost contempt. Our safe word is "Play," but I won't use it, promise. I want you to verbally bash my brains out, boil me like root vegetables, turn me inside out like a reversible bomber jacket. Bust my stitches like an overachieving student would his backpack, melt me like plastic, toss me out on the highway so I barrel-roll right off the side, ship me across the Pacific Ocean in a container with no light, no food, no facilities--just water. Make me believe that all this is real, to the point that I can't feel anymore. The sublime existence of an object that can never be yours.

12 January - 26 February 2012
envoy enterprises



Large
48 x 60 in., acrylic and oil on canvas




Small
24 x 20 in., acrylic and oil on canvas