Gabe BC, Purgatory, at C24 Gallery.
A slot machine. The ultimate capitalist inactivity. No illusion of skill, no intimation of thought. Put your money and in and watch it spin (away from you). Or here, receive a cryptically meaningless message, like a MadLib fortune cookie. A comment on emptiness, but an empty comment.
Souls trapped in shrines, tortured by their liminal existence. As digitally created creatures. As icons for micro-frustrations. As ghosts of the present era, in the primacy of screens. Cheap tabernacles, lit with neon, evoke not the flames of hell but the lights of Las Vegas. The tawdry performativeness is best seen as comedy.
(I’m afraid) I’m not laughing.
