Last night I unrolled my prints from the home they have become far too acquainted with, slipping them carefully out of a cardboard tube which, although dusty on the outside, was immaculately pristine beneath the several corrugated layers. With my hands encased in white cotton gallery gloves, I tacked my work to the walls of a Brooklyn basement where I felt both honored to present and genuinely privileged to be among the presence of such talented company. The surrounding images encompassed this small basement with an unapologetic sense of ownership; they spanned every surface of the space, extending, in places, to disperse across the ceiling. As a result, I too became engulfed with this overwhelming, unlimited, and unprecedented artistic energy which I have come to regard with permanence among my peers.
In the morning, I will return to the space to celebrate the success of the show and sip mimosas while also, inevitably, scrubbing the floors. A stroke of the sponge for the footprint of every soul who chose to show their support, and so I must confess, I do hope we are cleaning all day.
