is a curatorial umbrella founded in 2022 - is often a hallucination - considers whether all flowers are glass flowers - is lazy and receptive to failure - has the appearance of something smashed - likes to light fires - is a bundle of atoms clinging together that will not cling to you - needs to see a specialist - will not return your emails in a timely manner - is never tested on animals - likes to come first - is directed by Milo Christie and Sam Dybeck.





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a quiet farewell, let it kill you


Cj Shaw (b. 1998 Los Angeles, CA) lives and works in Chicago. He received his BFA from Columbia College Chicago. Selected group exhibitions include Weatherproof in Chicago, IL; SULK CHICAGO in Chicago, IL; Night Club Gallery in St. Paul, MN; Pop Gun in New York, NY.
 My teacher in the 9th grade said that awkward goodbyes were a pet peeve of his. On the last day of the semester he instructed everyone to make a decision on their way out of the door that he would be standing in front of. The students could do one of three things; shake his hand, give him a fist bump, or give him a hug. 

This thought crosses one's mind as it sits in a 24 hour diner; one on Ashland because Western is too noisy, everyone eating solo, hunched over their meal. Leaving Greensleeves by Leonard Cohen comes on the radio. 

A group of kids, their black outfits obscured by the night, wait for the bus on the other side of the diner’s window, a set of four, single LED lights that bounce around as they laugh at their friend who drunkenly tripped up the curb. You always thought that your life would be written in stone when you turned 25, but lately you have been feeling like that's when it actually began. You wonder about the combination of a gutterball and a strike.

So Long Marianne comes on the radio. 

The waitress comes by to ask if you need anything and refills your coffee, you say that you’re okay and ask for the check. In the contemplative moment of waiting for the bill, the room reveals an empty four top pre-bus and a man at another table with an empty plate tensely checking his watch. You know that it will only take one to five minutes yet you fight the urge to pull out your phone. What is American about grief? 

A group of young painters to whom you had been introduced by an overzealous acquaintance in the past enter. One glances up at you, a knowing look-cum-reverence from a face undecided between friend or freeze, nudging his friend’s elbow with his own but not knowing if it's best to approach. 

You smile and Redondo Beach by Patti Smith comes on the radio. 

The laughter of trick-or-treaters passing by with their chaperone. Two of them act out a bit; Frankenstein limps clumsily and John Cena knocks him backwards, breaking his fall with a homemade picnic table costume. You respect people that know exactly what they want from the things they use. You pay cash and tip modestly. 

Swinging the door open, there is spilled candy on the sidewalk. The radio playing the chorus of Closing Time (every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end) is overlaid by the din of a truck full speed, horns blaring at what it might hit. Whoever it is, you wonder if they fell off. 



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