Three black doughnut fenders, bobbing and turning out on black water; all is lacquered with glisten    ~   A dead boy   ~   Quivering felt, packed firm and perched –shadow held– at the light, grey edge of an unforgiving exposure. Two unremarkable symbols stay fastened nearby. Rolling bass   ~   White floor. White Walls. Whiter light casted, subtracting space. Four little, red orbs like freckles on a shoulder   ~   A horn that seeks to rise, gummed up in damp thicket   ~   The nadir of a pond, packed with shale and sediment and glances unseen. A pull is felt; melancholy, somehow avoided   ~   What looks like a lamp post base, cut and swept across by anguished fire. Below it, charred marble, but no ash   ~   A black doorway within a black wall, with a black shape brooding inside. It is not threatening, nor moveable, but it continues on –in the peripheral –wherever you go   ~   An alabaster moan   ~   Five hundred oyster shells; cracked, torched and amassed into a cube. To be placed askew within a window that holds a forest   ~   An inverted obelisk twelve feet deep. The crown-base, quartz   ~   A pile of rocks in a still configuration of death and slumber, grown upon by lichen    ~   Stucco wall within a room that’s a quarter dark, three quarter light. The wall is the delineation. Stone-smooth borders come too close for one to pass, but one can see, the warm light, from bright unto invisible, lending yearning thoughts to other ends   ~   Heavy stone, circular, almost like a flute segment. Smooth but cracked faintly throughout, with one disturbing hole in it. Impossible to lift   ~  Wall of shingles, mid-melt, dictated by patterns of light. Comfort’s painful ecstasy. Pain’s temporary sigh. A wall with visions of many lost, sad sights. As tall as they are wide. The borders seem to blur. The center seems to throb. In fact, it is tender enough to break. Through it, one may extend their arm    ~   Two tombs, two tomes, stacked and of equal size. One knows not head to foot, one knows not epilogue to preface; but they share spine, they see sentiment encased in eroded marble, veins fanned intricate and reaching. A shroud, a breath’s distance is thought of from time to time   ~   A dead woman   ~   In the corner of a generous room, a patch of tall, leaning bristles –almost baleen– that one must walk a-ways to. One enters from a door in the opposite corner and does not, until turning around, notice their own diagonal, dark footprints left behind. But others do   ~   A diorama of Gare Montparnasse; The Melancholy of Departure   ~   Crushed envelopes, casted in brass and copper, scattered on grey, slate tiles. Watered occasionally   ~   A hollow, wooden structure, angled and shaped like a cracked obelisk. At the crack, a padded place to kneel, as the head and torso fit –stomach down– into the confined, dark space. In it resonates the expansive sounds of St. Paul’s, circa 39’   ~   Another hollow, wooden structure pointed downwards where one bends at the waist to enter; after they lift their legs gravity gently sinks them into the sounds of the Eritrean Rail, crossing Massawa   ~   Five large brass tubes standing in a wind tunnel. They are suspended with concentric spheres inside, just nearly each tube’s diameter. Throughout varying perforations, wind enters, lifting and spinning the hollow spheres quickly within. A hum of five tones is generated, continuing for hours    ~   A wall of still, but shifting sand kept whole by scrim. On one side, a wall, on the other, a wall of window. There is nowhere to sit but on the floor which has some grit to it: a light dusting of black sand    ~   A prescient post   ~   Stone barge on a shallow sea floor, sunken and embedded with coral buds and glimmering crates   ~   Three large slabs of marble, identical in size; two placed flat; their distance the space of the third slab, looming upright. This should be positioned so that the space between –in winter– receives absolutely no light. All outer edges jagged   ~   An empty room, good light, just a mantle, no hearth. In it, a bell like shape encased in amber. Across the room in a horizontal alcove, an array of objects that make mention of O’Neill   ~   Cracks to where you stand. Floor of your choosing. Just some sort of stone and cracked by someone else; or by you when you thought you were someone you weren’t or will never be. Harsh or soft light. Doesn’t matter   ~   Hall of reflections. Wishes in the center; sharp and intimidating, but beautiful in the ways of natural creations. Audio is less like sounds, than pressure; coming and going as the blind boy bound up in the ceiling corner wails. Drinks below for all   ~   Someone tells another to enter a space; one very sculptural, curved like an enemy’s bedroom; four poster space, wardrobe to their id. Hatred is in the joy of the molding’s carvings watchful faces –or so this someone’s tongue sculpts into your ear– The bedside lamp, an ember allay, a recitation of a force that cannot change its mind. While leering, someone tells you your place   ~   A Louise Nevelson, car-compacted and dipped in brass, placed softly upon a ledge among written thoughts on asking   ~   Diffused light –quartz like– pale gold to blue backed by pillars of steam that funnel outwards and sway like dead soldiers in water, or dried moths in an abandoned web. This scene is always far from touch. Nothing scented, nothing really heard. The light softly shifts   ~   A blank page of a view framed by faint traces of memory involving light. Some scents and mistakes linger beneath all the seagull’s calls   ~   Below blue trusses, a network of veins black like limbs and branches against the gloaming sky. The room should be humid but cool; smell of moss and wet stone. There is the tendency to reach, not with hand, but by memory; and from there the winds may gather against the walls of that room. The veins as still as unsaid lies    ~   A pocked limestone wall with protruding brass pegs on which burlap bags of black sand balance. One occasionally falls, another spills, one topples atop another. The stone is unpainted, but with bush hammered treatment   ~   Four panels of perforated vinyl forming a cube in the center of a Georgian Revival room: fireplace, wood molding, built in shelves, settees and a letter desk. In the center of the cube a lamp frosted globe in which amber light burns. At times, it subtly changes; perhaps from the faintest introduction of other elements, perhaps from the exit or entrance of someone in the room   ~   A circular fountain where two marble men bathe. The water descends from a pail one holds as he stands behind the other who, with slight weight, rests against him. His hands are relaxed as he leans, eyes closed, head back against the other’s chest. Both are at ease; between them quiet and rest    ~   Black room polished to the point of mirroring, the floor wet two inches deep. Toppled stone pillars fill the center like one massive pile of firewood. The moisture creeps upwards, as does change, beauty, and decay. Viewers wear Geta   ~   Three dark towers lean, forming one shaded apex against a flat onyx corner tiled and barely reflective. Their bases extend into the room with the grace of a panther’s forefoot, and are braced by small risers that too, are tiled darkly   ~   Murmurs placid, then jutting, through a taut soundscape shaped by how much mass is in the room. Desk like mantles are placed about; askew to one another, as well as the walls so foggy with the sounds of presence   ~   Behind glass, a large, white room with one slate wall spanning half of it. The frosted glass lets light stream in. From which, intricate, overlapping shadows are cast. They change throughout the day; lengthening, darkening, knotting, falling apart but never revealing what exactly is casting them. That knowledge stays still, behind the slate   ~   Numerous steel cords –thick, like those gathered for suspension bridges– standing, in varying heights, upright from the floor. Splash with hydrochloric acid on three occasions   ~   Casted choir singing to a brick wall. To be placed in East Baltimore, then removed the next day   ~   Two dead salamanders   ~   In the middle of a dark walled, –but sensually lit– dark room, a mound of excavated foot prints. Some twenty, twenty-five feet around, five foot high ~ Four casts of architectural facades in a great room, sunlit from a ceiling of glass. The facades are upright, leaning against one another creating a space within. They are grey. Solid gold brackets hold them    ~   More facades; but this time, ancient, or made recently in haste without anything but intuition. Ornate brackets support them, and they seem both structural and bound to aesthetics. The room smells of limestone and rosewater   ~   Final set of facades. These are both stacked and leaning in a room much like the first. Before each stack or stand alone, a large blotch of a shape upon the floor. The leaning works are anchored, the stacks elevated by beams so that one may duck and enter, looking upwards at the skylight through portals that once were windows and doors   ~   A black canvas, sand-stuffed wall riddled with brass grommets. Twenty by thirty; the rest of the room dimly lit and flat black. All is empty save some mineral water and scoresheets   ~   Room of greenstone chimneys. Stand alone. Much thought to their placement. Think Serenade   ~   Snaking concrete roadways throughout a massive space; walls preferably white. The roads fit the dimensions of a road, perhaps are even –yes, in fact they are– a copy of existing on and off ramps, but their height is seven feet high. Rebar ladders are placed here and there, minimally. Light colored rafters, grey floor, ceiling of glass   ~   A box