Gallery Hours:

Friday–Sunday

12-4PM

Gasping for breath, climbing up the ridge of the back, stepping onto the hollow neck, thick hair blocking the way forward, ruffling, trimming, moving forward through the darkness. Gradually, vaguely, could feel the vibration and cracking of the feet from the chest, slippery on the soles of the feet. Land and water are both not well as passage ways, this is the mischief and accommodation of the move.

Land and water are both not well as passage ways, this is the sly utterance of the creator and the work and words that were born. Two feet off the ground , leaving the mother; wobbling on a swing; leaning in front of a big screen; dangling over the edge of a cliff; becoming a bug, a sound, an exclamation, sailing briefly away from gravity in a leap of faith, and then landing. These mark the beginnings of being a human creature, and then the cycles repeat . Cuticle, dust, fetters, fetishes, overloads, the foreign matter that intermittently vomits up its sweetness , forming a firm yet soft chrysalis. “Metamorphosis” is a romantic, stirring, and short analogy, whereby we come close to and snuggle up to other creatures, merging seamlessly, remembering the origins of everything.

Creation, is to create a non-relative child, hard-boned, innocent, stubborn, to fall, to stand, to look back at the creator. This alien body in front of them is the skin shed by the world, by the creator’s gaze, hands, and heart; each part deserving great credit. Thus their faces are blurred, seeming elliptical and indistinct—this lies outside the formation of keen language, arising instead from the knot jointly birthed by the individual body and the external world: entangled, searing, at times beyond attribution. Walking, experiencing, lingering, shedding our skin, walking again - sometimes we don't care if we get a nod of recognition and “make progress” along the way. The skin has to come off eventually, light enough to carry many of the creator's innermost questions and entanglements; lightness is not usually associated with greatness, but the creator's self-exposure renders it grand.

And we love the blurriness of these skins, we love the blur more than the precise stacks. The wayward yet desolate draft that cuts through the hall blows this layer of shed skin toward strangers never met, letting them wear it, slip into the vessel of another—loose or tight, scorching or pleasant, or… possessed. Among cicada calls and bird songs, in the holes of shifting tree shadows, we carry each other’s silhouettes, glittering like ripples on water.

The Molt Journal is a visual record of joy in the midst of asceticism, seeking to tug at a few heartstrings.