Meet a sweets in the Manhattan lower mids to jet to an opening that promises the oportunity to demolish some preconceptions with bits of red foam. Failing miserably, the click BOOM click of a prescriptive haze of cards washes over like attending the school of no chances. It stills the heart to peer into the endless plexiglass vortex.
Around the corner, frack in full effect a demo of upstaters takes the block between Avenue fundraiser and then, fully realized, we scamper for some temperate Brooklyn climate.
We find with Plato views of the artist mind elucidating the first inklings of intolerance. Basis theory for all ejections from the Polis subsequent. A Nebraskan transplant who muscled himself into the starkly minimal composer scene was beamed back to Brooklyn via Skype. After having bounced across the pond for bouts of looped elegance an artistic reality of being expat not for former love of country but for demonstrable lack of financials. Yet Skype seems the perfect medium for push-button loops and subtle glitchy deconstructs, upgrading the tragic hungry artist to the untethered aloof.
Further down the road to ruin, now in NASA bona fide form, the glacial pace of impending doom is met with the sounds of stubborn refusal for dry ice to take on liquid form. On metal mic-ed for effect.