The art space is up a side street, down a side entrance.
A former church, Lego art walls suppress that history, those feelings, almost, Never.
I've been here before.
The memory of standing alongside Wilhelm Sasnal here still stands Tallest.
This time, the artist, the artwork, is not long out of art school. Gabrelle Drimolovski is here, in Lismore, at St. Carthage Hall, because she won an award.
One projected film. Two lights. This to suggest that.
Marilyn Minter lips come pierced and wet and conscious. A slinky silhouette undulates behind a screen. It's a show and tell; show this to tell that.
Sometimes the show is enough though.
Harvey Weinstein is on my mind. He's wearing a bathrobe. Little hands tip-toe through oily black forests planted on the rocky podiums of Cowboys and Indians.
Trump gropes a woman with his devil hoof hand.
Being a woman, being a man, from mirror stage to mirror stooge, what does the look look like behind sexuality, behind power, behind a combover?
Is wanting to be looked at an invitation to be looked at? Is there ultimate shame in seeking attention? What's the alternative? Being ignored, sympathy, respect.