Solo exhibition
Rivalry Projects, Buffalo, NY.
September 12th – October 31st, 2025.
Exhibition text & More information
one road over the workers are felling trees. sounding a blinking horn and overlapping saw motors as they reverse up the gravel. and though it disrupts the gobbling whispers of the spring it does smell good. the freshly severed wood and its sap- reacting to the wounds, crying or bleeding or wetting itself. you told me once you too had a wet spot. kind of like soft spot so i imagined it in your crotch, though it was probably in your armpit or at the back of your throat or inside your sinuses or at the crown of your head (cuz youve been so hard at work).
i boarded a boat with my family and many others and let the captain hit play from a less-than-considerate spotify playlist (with the ads on). and we moved gingerly toward the water wave with a built-in on/off switch, (did you know that?). they played drake or some shit and we got enveloped by the mist. they didnt turn it off for us, the water that is. in our vinyl ponchos we pretended to cry because we were so wet the difference between mist and tears became imperceptible (i mean there wasnt one). we were making a joke and it was funny our grief. the fake little tears and the fake big water, however real. this would be a good place to kill yourself, i thought. but this summer they put up fences so you can’t die here anymore, unless youre lucky.
all of my desert friends have dry skin, where moisture never sticks around long. trying to hydrate your pores when theyve been crusted shut since what might as well be your entire life well at some point the cost and the slog, the schedule and circular motions arent worth it anymore. there are things more in need of water than your pores like spines and coyotes and the thirsty desert people with nowhere else to drink from.
living on a rock the moss receives visitors. during rush hour she takes a bath. a quiet gestation too fragile to perceive. you look at the stream. with you or without you its a movement. seeking gravity or succumbing to, hard to say but i once saw a flame creep up. transformers buzzing and the moss she watched and asked for witness. so an energy drink can tumbled, landed on the moss on the rock and asked her for a sip.
for every bug a thousand puncture wounds. for every trash fire at least one puddle of melted aluminum in the shape of your fear. polyester flowers make way for a world we won’t be forced to inhabit. dry depleted soil atop the lifeless ruins to come, making way for their watch dogs and their amniotic spells and their cast iron gates and their melted paper pulp and their guardians and their plastic stems. i swear at this point id give anything for some sludge.