2025
Modified chairs, brass manicules, brass plates with original poetry, wooden molding
Die-cut brass manicules, wooden molding, various positions
Die-cut brass manicules, wooden molding, various positions
Die-cut brass manicules, wooden molding, various positions
Die-cut brass manicules, wooden molding, various positions
Die-cut brass manicules, wooden molding, various positions
You, terracotta charm, my little votive, my blue antelope primed for tip-toe running
(my hare, my hart, my sable, my nymph)
You, sweet bronze puppylump with your burnished apple head peaking from the granite hem
Frescobaby, you fold at the joints like turned-over dough. À bas-de-page, needlessly, your fingers grip the groundline like a ledge.
Lone foot in a sandal. Fingers in your mouth. An eye for every feather.
For your confinement: a three footed bed; a wheel of fire; and a black twisted rope for pulling
(leave the rope draped over the high black beam, which tilts, as everything does, to the vanishing point inside the house.)
What are you holding there dear? Oh already always still dropping on to the marble floor of the foreground
What were you holding? This wreath you drop in midair looks like the tail of an animal hiding behind you
How long since your red went pink? Pigment that fell from you in a slow-scattering pollen
If you had your feet again would they be bared, running?
Documentation by Chris Uhren