Across the floor and up the wall is a pale-yellow drape. The kind of yellow you’d see on the inside of a banana peel, it’s internal. Its supportive backing is meant to heighten the drama of the saturation on its flipside, it’s the flesh that holds it together and clues you into what the material is. Paying homage to the woven history of textiles as it skews between construction and deconstruction.   Over, under, over, under are wefts of black and white tarpaulin measly pulling its yellow friend back together. Or perhaps overtaking it, as its grip creates a stronghold that’s twisting and turning the vibrant yellow out of hiding, before warping back into itself and hanging like a chessboard onto the floor. Contrary to the ongoing movement, it seems impervious to time. The work is situated on the cusp of rhythmic production and transitory stillness. If I’m aware of how the materials were draped and woven together, I’d begin to wonder who was responsible. The grid-patterned button up that’s caught into the blinds of the yellow is be-headed and swallowed up in the guillotine of yellow wefts like a remnant of an awry execution. Hanging off that lapel is our 

whose noble subjects play across the gridded surface like a pattern, looking down on her sovereign. A house of cards rests in front of the wooden trim that stabilizes the work before the viewer’s feet, its architecture a feat of ephemerality and nimble fingers.