Every scrap contained herein was placed in heartache, in obsession. This foray into lusty color and detail stands as a feeble representation — part grossly-obvious symbolism, part fragmented memory — of historical traumas and their nature as formative and irreplaceable facets of culture. Scraps of burned books, antisemitic toys, and lost family heirlooms up for auction to the masses form the kelipot here. Smoking, toxic ghost-shells cradle and counterbalance the whole-holy sefirot. Some of these images are rotten and some just lonely, but the ache is the same.
This pain is our meat, our blood, our fish to fry… and fry it we must. It’s hard to remember, but it’s worse to forget.