POST YORK - by glenn harcourt

DYSTOPIA DETAIL

POST YORK Story and Art by James Romberger

REVIEWED BY GLENN HARCOURT

GRAPHIC NOVEL

POST YORK Story and Art by James Romberger with additional material by Crosby Romberger 112 pages Dark Horse Comics/Berger Books

“They somehow set fire to what was left of the East Side.” —POST YORK, p.86.

The city had been ceded to climate change. It was drowned, abandoned, gone wild, given over to the feral young: a hostile, black-and-white environment, prone to violence but still susceptible to love. It was POST YORK.

POST YORK is a graphic novel of striking immediacy, a nearfuture dystopia with an in-your-face punch. Lacking all the context that might characterize a contemporary climate disaster newscast, the novel begins quite simply, as an adventure in daily living in the flooded ruins of a post-apocalyptic New York City. Crosby, the novel’s protagonist, searches the submerged city in a dinky motorboat, rustling food for his cat, Kitski. He finds a cache in a deserted movie theater inhabited by a pretty young squatter named Ivy. She confronts Crosby. They fight. An uneasy truce ensues, sealed by an act of accidental barter. Ivy smiles as she admires her new helmet. Crosby heads home to the hungry Kitski.

However, several subsequent panels of rain pouring down on empty exteriors suggest a more malign reality. The city’s only denizen appears a lonely and bedraggled pigeon, looking very like Noah’s land-seeking dove, perched on a sleek light stanchion. And there is no respite from the deluge.

Rather, this low-key narrative becomes the template for a thrice-recapitulated sequence of events, which begins each time with Crosby’s decision to set out on his cat food quest. With each subsequent retelling, this basic story is radically altered by chance and circumstance. The stakes of play are ratcheted up: Crosby’s tussle with Ivy ends in death (the most bleak and “existential” of the three scenarios); whales and sharks patrol the turbid waters; bloody vengeance is exacted for an accident; the rich and morally corrupt cannibalize a living whale as the East Side burns (ecological and social lessons are drawn); transgressive desire becomes a weapon; art passes away; two might-be lovers are [re]united at a party marking the End of Civilization. A final ray of light is teased: “I’m Crosby. I think we can change this story.” (p.101)

In terms of style and thematic structure, the book presents some interesting contrasts. Romberger’s visual style is a brutal, slashing black-and-white, stripped down and intensely powerful, but also able to catch fine physical nuances: Crosby’s incredulity or his determination, Ivy’s pouting beauty. The visual structure is also cinematic and the transitions frame to frame are dynamic and fluid. Much of the narration proceeds without dialog and we are left to imagine a rich extra-vocal soundscape. And the novel reflects on its own status as art with reference both to cinema and Renaissance fresco (pp. 46–47; 69; 84–87: a beautifully drawn-out argument). The politics are radical, eventually holding up a mirror to an elite culture in a state of utter moral and existential collapse. But there is room for love, and the relationship between Crosby and Ivy may be touched by Grace. At least, it’s a possibility.

NOTE: In addition to the novel proper, there is also (among other additional material from James and Crosby) an illustrated history of the project, and a set of annotated endnotes that will help the interested reader orient herself with respect to the scientific and public policy material consulted by the author.

WRITING ON THE WALLS ASCO’s Public Interventions in 1970s Los Angeles

BY KELLY RAPPLEYE

PROVENANCE

The artistic legacies of Mexican Muralism remain imprinted on LA’s urban landscape, in faded residues on cracked concrete structures and sometimes peeking out from peeling layers of whitewash anti-graffiti paint. Throughout the 1970s, many artists in Southern California’s Chicano Art Movement claimed the medium of the wall as public pulpit. These murals took up the pedagogical aims of Mexican Muralism to spread the good word of socialist revolution to the masses, educate the citizenry on radical histories, and challenge the doctrine of capitalist, colonial land privatization. In the same period, a fluid art group called ASCO (from the Spanish phrase me da asco, loosely meaning “you make me sick” or synonymous with “nausea”) reconfigured this inherited lineage to provoke stereotypes of Chicano art. ASCO experimented with Dada and Fluxus practices of spatial détournement— making the familiar unfamiliar—to make live, ephemeral art from LA’s walls, streets and cultural materials. Rejecting what they perceived as a hegemonic collectivism in the prevalent “Mexican-American Art” motifs, ASCO preferred sarcasm and playful modes of repurposing to declarative ethical pronunciations, manifestos and social realism. Still, ASCO was emphatically political, with co-founders Gronk (aka Glugio Nicandro), Harry Gamboa Jr, Willie Herrón III, and later joining member artist Patssi Valdez—all deeply involved in the fervent Chicano student activism across East LA high schools in the 1970s. Broadening their perspectives, they cultivated an internationalist engagement with aesthetic philosophies, accessed from a homegrown, punk vantage that was self-taught out of East LA barrio public schools, rather than elite art schools. Unlike the tinges of individualism and politics-as-consumer-cosplay often associated with the punk generation, ASCO’s nod to Fluxus experimented with practices of de-individuation to provoke concepts of normative identity. ASCO juxtaposed familiar spaces and symbols with modalities of popular culture—such as mail art and home videos—to reject the era’s commodification of identity and political aesthetics.

ASCO’s playful reconfiguration of the mural form is evident in the striking group portrait Asshole Mural (1974). In it, the artists are dressed as archetypal Scarface-meets-American-Psycho 1970s assholes, with the men in three-piece ensembles while Patssi Valdez glares out at the camera from designer sunglasses. Assembled in an unyielding line across the frame, the group is poised coolly on either side of a gaping, black... hole that occupies the image’s central focus. The backdrop is an all-too familiar Los Angeles landscape; a lush, desert hillside with the cavernous excavation indicating a concrete aqueduct, linking to extractive water infrastructures of unfathomable industrial scale. This visual evocation alludes to the genocidal histories of Indigenous land dispossession and water theft that forged the way for LA’s urban development in the 20th century. The expansive networks of water extraction further imbricate the scene with ongoing labor struggles of Chicano farm workers across rural California against exploitative agricultural production.

Another of ASCO’s most famous live interventions was Spray Paint (1972), in which they responded to a racist statement by LACMA’s then-curator (who disregarded Chicano art as mere graffiti) by graffitiing their names on LACMA’s entrance, claiming the wall as their own ready-made. Though departing from more didactic methods of social realism found in traditional muralism, ASCO took up LA walls to explore themes of Chicano life, playing upon a rich tapestry of philosophical and historical influences through sardonic juxtaposition.

Umar Rashid Transformative Arts

By Ezrha Jean Black

For an artist who has deliberately cultivated a naïve style, Umar Rashid (who also occasionally calls himself Frohawk Two Feathers) appears to have calculated the exhibition’s title, “Per Capita” with almost labyrinthine deliberation—an amalgam of the coyly matterof-fact, ceremonious and slyly deceptive. Alternate readings might suggest for the head as much as the more commonplace, by the head.

An impressive, blue painted ceremonial arch, titled 8th Wonder: Portal to Los Angeles Past, Present and Future (2021), greeted visitors to the gallery; yet the transfer prints that covered the structure—white cougar and bird-like silhouettes collectively titled, “All Power to the Women” (2017)—seemed slightly disconnected from both the triumphal aspect of the arch and the “Per Capita” drawings hanging at the rear of the gallery. But disconnection and detour seemed to be subsidiary themes of the show. Ostensibly the centerpiece of the show, the eponymous “Per Capita” pieces (2021)—one an acrylic-on-cowhide with rampaging toy-like horses and masked soldiers slashing at each others’ heads; the other, a suite of 12 acrylic-on-paper drawings (of women’s faces—subtitled “Hortense through Candy,” each captioned “PER CAPITA”)—could not by themselves encapsulate either the artist’s stylistic range or the exhibition’s scope which, in addition to serving as a mini-retrospective of the artist’s work (from 2013), amounted to an exorcism of colonialism past and present. Rashid achieves his exorcism not merely through stylistic means (though he is a practiced hand at this, borrowing from Japanese graphic work of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Indian and Persian miniatures, Native American art dating from various periods of US colonial expansion, and Anglo-American folk art from the same period), but by revisiting—and aggressively messing with— the usual historical narratives. One example of this is a 2017 suite of unique zero graphic transfer prints (with ink and acrylic) on birch panels: an 18th-century “Shock Doctrine” scenography of colonial invasion, occupation, suppression and revolt. Women are depicted in full contention with their male counterparts, ready to take on leadership roles. Rashid has continued developing these interventions by historical reinvention, composing (in 2019) what is effectively a graphic mytho-satirical epic of colonialism in 40 panels (including a frontispiece), Views of Colonial Fabric Softener or, The Sidney and St. Marc Expedition to the Pacific, 1795. (e.g., panel 8, “Trappers/Sharpshooters or historical origin of Kool cigarettes”). It was perplexing that this ambitious series was not featured more prominently, but the gallery’s spatial limitations clearly impeded the show’s organization and installation. That said, not all of the work exhibited served Rashid’s overarching themes. Not to dismiss the totemic aspects of Rashid’s mythographic exorcism, but the “Yves Klein” garden totems could have easily been culled from the show. In addition to a surprisingly authentic-looking drum, Rebel (2013), Rashid showed an embroidered and appliquéd cape, Trickster (2019) bearing such insignia as a snake curling around an octagonal spider’s web (with Afro combs taking the place of classical Greek key and scroll-work for the decorative trim). Rashid also plays a trickster here, which is half the point. If colonialism’s legacies are still with us (on a “per capita” basis or otherwise), we continue to re-enact their ceremonies and traumas, even as we lampoon and subvert them.

Umar Rashid, Trappers/sharpshooters or historical origin of Kool cigarettes, 2019. Courtesy Transformative Arts.

Alexander Harrison Various Small Fires

By Leanna Robinson

Alexander Harrison’s aptly named exhibition “Midnight Everywhere,” is an exploration of the moods, tones and colors that the night brings. The paintings in the exhibition form a cohesive collection and tell the story of a solitary artist living in an old wooden house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by apple trees and rolling hills with only the stars and flowers to keep him company. The focal painting, Portrait of an artist in the penumbra of the moon, in hopes for a brighter future (all works 2021), gives insight into who the main character in this story is—a Black cowboy with a toothy grin gazing out the window, painting the midnight sky. In many ways this “artist character” gives the collection a meta quality. Although the paintings were created by Harrison, one could suspend their disbelief and instead infer that the paintings were in fact painted by this mysterious cowboy. The still life paintings of watermelons, apples and flowers are what he would paint after a long day, and show snapshots from his life, giving the impression that this cowboy could have simply looked around his environment and painted what he saw in his surroundings. The consistent color palette is effective: the deep blues and purples give the impression of moonlight spreading over each scene. It’s easy to visualize the quiet, secluded cabin in which all of this introspection and recording took place, and to fill in the blanks of who this artist is (the one in the painting, not Harrison himself). The cohesive story is echoed by repeating themes in the paintings, such as checkerboard cloth, or watermelon seeds from a windowsill in Midnight Picnic, which also make an appearance in The Moon. All of this storytelling elevates the show to a metaphysical level, and changes the context of the figurative paintings that contain subject matter that could be seen as elementary—how many art students paint fruit for their first assignment? This does have its downfall, however, as the pieces are stronger as a collection and some may not hold up as well as solo efforts. This is a show that is greater than the sum of its parts. Harrison’s interest in storytelling goes beyond the paintings’ content, and into his painting techniques as well. Many of the paintings have a trompe-l’œil effect, in which Harrison has painted frames around the composition. This strategy suggests a vantage point from within the painting, further immersing the viewer in the world

Alexander Harrison, Portrait of an artist in the penumbra of the moon, in hopes for a brighter future, 2021. Courtesy Various Small Fires. he has created. The windows also tell another story, as sweeping landscapes and a sense of stillness are juxtaposed by imagery of one being trapped. In Counting Sheep, a face peers out of a tiny opening, and in Why’d I have to Go n’ Dream so Big? the windowpane suggests a jail cell. This obvious longing that the artist in the paintings has is palpable, and from the solitary Light of Mine in the room of its own, it appears that the fire is still burning.

Helen Chung Rio Hondo College

By Eve Wood

All good art has at its core an essential moment of transmutation, a point at which the object and the idea which informs it fully coalesce. The essence of the object—whether it’s a painting or a bag sculpture—versus the impulse to create it in the first place are the central questions that inform Helen Chung’s artistic process, and her recent solo exhibition at Rio Hondo College attests to these strange and often magical correlations. Working across disciplines is rarely easy, and we as viewers are constantly seeking visual threads that might lead us to some essential meaning. Neither Chung’s paintings nor sculptures correlate directly to her source material—shopping bags from high-end retailers that initially transfer expensive baubles, then are almost immediately downgraded to toting one’s dry-cleaning, then eventually to their sad end as rubbish themselves. The artist has exhumed what were essentially status chits designed to signal consumer spending ability and given these former upmarket signifiers a new life as art objects, as paintings and sculpture elevated to the gallery, a sic transit gloria mundi of market self-indulgence. The artist’s subjects are revived as specimens of desire and loss through their spendy names—Prada Resort, D&G Sport, yet posers manage to sneak in: Disney Hall, Victoria’s Secret. Her works, however, are not true-to-form representations of the literal objects but suggest a more nuanced conception of what an object can be, to be examined from all angles simultaneously rather than affixing a specific meaning to a more specific interpretation. This approach allows that one side of an object can represent its entirety, at least in 2D space, yet in each of these works there is a transformation that occurs. For example, in the sculpture, Ma Favarite (2018), the red-and-brown bag begins to suggest a human face when considering its corresponding painting Laughing Skull (2021). Again, the works are not meant to correlate to a specific narrative, but instead emphasize the shifting focus that happens when looking closely at the sculptures, a strangely solipsistic experience wherein the object we are viewing transforms depending on the angle in which we are seeing it, hence her title for the exhibition, “Undique,” a Latin word meaning allover or from every point of view. Ultimately, Chung’s working process appears to have no true beginning and no obvious end as each of the pieces appears fluid and in constant motion, replicating the process by which these bags were created in the first place. Considering these works together, one realizes that there are multiple translations, all of which are equally valid and enlightening. One longs to make some sense of them, yet as soon as meaning comes into focus, it dissolves yet again.

Brandon Lipchik Richard Heller Gallery

By Shana Nys Dambrot

A new suite of swimming-pool themed paintings by Brandon Lipchik look like everything but what they are. Their physical surface textures are varied from shape to shape, and even more so the range of techniques employed in each image. Their reductive geometrical and planar elements of nature, architecture and anatomy nestle like intersecting passages of stylized abstraction. Their bold graphic quality, foreshortening and forced perspectives suggest a hyper-flat picture plane when in fact each scene inhabits complex depths of pictorial space. While optically informed by the digital condition, and at moments outright presenting as photo-collage, the works are painstakingly hand-built with layers, expert taping and multiple visual languages. Once the puzzle of how he constructs his images is solved, the content which has presented as quirky, jaunty armatures for flourishes of style reveals nuanced, pensive and even melancholic emotional states. The swimming pool is the central motif across the exhibition titled “Inground” (all works 2021) and Lipchik both taps into the rich iconography of movies, art history and pop culture, and the double meaning of floating and reflection. The glowing pools charm and beckon, illuminating and anchoring the scenes in the outdoors

as well as in architecture. Are the figures by and in the water drowned, drunk or just dreaming? As in Chemtrail Sky and the literally cheeky Tire Swings, (both 54 x 59 inches) we never see their faces, only the backs and tops of their heads, signified by hard-edged hemispheres of thick and dark impasto that more mimics than depicts tight curls. Elsewhere this same technique is used to paint rocks and small boulders from natural vignettes of ponds and perhaps rivers. The water is rendered in delicate blue washes, with the striated wetness of brush work doing the work of its ripples. Brandon Lipchik, Chemtrail Sky, 2021. When there is nature—trees Photo by Alan Shaffer. Courtesy Richard and grass, plants, lawns, Heller Gallery. marshy reeds—its greenery is rendered in sharp yet wild angles and with a number of effects, both indicating and embodying their organic energy within the scenarios. Torched Mail is like this, as its twin Beckett-like barbeque grills emit the open flames of burned correspondence with a bit of danger and anthropomorphic glee. Like each work, the image is redolent of a juicy backstory. There are animals too, such as one might find in dreams—viscous blue origami dogs and angular, striped snakes with enormous, puppet-like heads as in Snake Puddle. And there are people acting like wild animals, as in the pointed allegory of Failed Insurrection, in which “tourists” take a tumble off the White House walls, and an American flag has bullet holes instead of stars. All of this suggests that while reflection may be a luminous property of atmosphere and light, it is also a state of mind which we as a society badly need at this moment—along with remembering that nothing is as it first appears.

Lisa Diane Wedgeworth Band of Vices

By Richard Allen May lll

Mari Evans’ poem, “I am a Black Woman” was resurrected through the “PASSION POWER PRAYER” exhibition at Band of Vices, featuring abstract paintings by Lisa Diane Wedgeworth. With a singular vision her works extend an invitation, as in The Matrix (1999): to take the blue pill where ignorance will remain bliss or the red pill, where the truth is revealed. I chose the red pill—metaphorically speaking—and was born again. A first reading of these works courageously suggests that the various hues of black—whether monochromatic, transparent or opaque— are not mediated, compromised or negotiated. For example, Embracing (Self Portrait as a Levitating Triangle) (2020) depicts isosceles-shaped spikes ascending through a gray whirlwind sky as if being raptured. The kinetic power presented asserts an unyielding protest, defying the belief that abstract suggestion is unknowable. The corresponding work, Accepting (Self Portrait as a Levitating Triangle) (2020) pulses with identical style. However, the scalene-shaped spike is now descending. Wedgeworth’s color choices correlate to the vibrancy of Kerry James Marshall’s acrylic works. Brown But and Beautiful (2014) is a similarly themed acrylic on canvas work alluding to self-celebration. A background square, coffee-brown, surrounds a tan, moon-shaped sphere sprinkled with dark freckles. Wedgeworth again demonstrates value and beauty within simplicity by whispering with abstraction. This work’s background parallels the acoustic absorber panel and acrylic paint on canvas strategies of Jennie C. Jones. In her Days and Nights of a Confident Woman (2014) Wedgeworth composes a grid of various levels of Blackness—ebony, licorice— and allusions to the heavenly through dark renderings of celestial bodies, waxing and waning, evoking the moon as a feminine symbol. The shape-shifting nature of each image suggests the inevitability, ambiguity and unpredictability of change, and the conception of feminine value and power. With allusions to earlier Black women artists who worked in mixed media—Dinga McCannon’s Revolutionary Sister (1971) and Out in Front (1982) by Emma Amos. Wedgeworth’s intentional refusal to aesthetically code-switch is revealed in this body of work. She instead enriches the discourse surrounding Black women artists like Kay Brown, Valerie Maynard, Faith Ringgold and Betye Saar, who seized their creative destinies amid a field tattooed with selfish patriarchy. Ultimately, her artworks paraphrase James Brown but instead say “Paint it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud!”

Lisa Diane Wedgeworth, Embracing (Self Portrait as a Levitating Triangle), 2020 Courtesy Band of Vices.

Elana Mann 18th Street Arts Center (Airport Campus)

By Jody Zellen

While an artist-in-residence at Artpace, in San Antonio TX, Elana Mann created work for her exhibition “Year of Wonders.” Executed during the height of the recent pandemic and inspired by Geraldine Brooks’ Year of Wonders (2001) that focused on the 1666 pandemic plague in England, Mann’s installation considers both the civil unrest and the isolation that occurred during the year of COVID-19. Mann has reprised the exhibition as “Year of Wonders, redux” for 18th Street Arts Center. At the center of the gallery sits the large sculpture Our work is never done (unfinished business) (2020–21), a fiberglass bullhorn, 120-feet long with multiple speaking tubes, modeled on the Mega-kazoo-horn originally made by the legendary folk music figure Charles Chase. It also recalls Erika Rothenberg’s Freedom

of Expression National Monument, (1984)—originally presented in New York for Creative Time’s annual program Art on the Beach—another participatory sculpture that invited viewers to broadcast their thoughts. Mann conceived her piece as a protest horn, meant to be played by six people simultaneously to harness the power of a collective voice. The pandemic, however, has prevented the sculpture from fulfilling Mann’s intentions. It must be

experienced individually. At 18th Street, it beckons seductively, yet remains silent. The deep blue gallery walls feature 50 unique rattles; each has a turned wooden handle and is capped with a ceramic top glazed with words or phrases. Collectively titled Unidentified Bright Object 1160 (2020), these rattles all have different sounds, shapes and words. Viewers may—with a white-gloved hand—shake the rattles to create myriad sounds that become individual voices within the space. Choosing from such texts: We/Me, No, Speak, Stand Up, People/ Power, Hear, Peace, and Go, it is possible to compose slogans and rhythms in one’s mind. The rattles function as both wall-based sculptures and sound instruments. Upon entry, one is encouraged to shake the rattles while circling the exhibition. Their varying weights and disparate sounds produce a gratifying experience, an enjoyable contrast to technological interaction. There are also works on paper on view, including After Sister Mary Corita Kent and Rising waves (2021), a five-panel edition depicting abstracted waves with a text attributed to the economist, journalist and policy advisor Barbara Ward that reads: “… we are either going to become a community or we are going to die,” and the compelling Self-portrait as radical empath (dedicated to Pauline Oliveros) (2021) where a line drawing of the artist’s head fuses with the bell of a horn. Two short videos fill a darkened space— one more abstract—an imagined landscape of floating instruments, while the other documents possible commands, sounds and gestures of the rattles. Here, hands are filmed shaking rattles proclaiming “hope” and “no” that pulsate against a bright pink background. They are followed by “see” “hear” “know” which then becomes “see” “peace” “help.” “Truth” and “shame” also appear. These words are a call to action—expressing some of what has occurred during the last year.

Elana Mann, Our work is never done (unfinished business), 2020–21. Installation view. Photo by Marc Walker. Courtesy 18th Street Arts Center.

“Sanctuary of the Aftermath” Angel’s Gate Cultural Center

By Genie Davis

In “Sanctuary of the Aftermath” at Angel’s Gate Cultural Center in San Pedro, curators Jason Jenn and Vojislav Radovanovic give viewers a lush, graceful experience with poignant experiential moments. Comprising 10 multimedia artists—David Hollen, Ibuki Kuramochi, Jason Jenn, Rosalyn Myles, Vojislav Radovanovic, Allison Ragguette, Kayla Tange, Nica Aquino, Jeff Frost and Anita Getzler—and an audio work by Joseph Carrillo, this is an immersive exhibition connecting water and land, spirit and body. It also speaks to the lack of connection experienced during pandemic times. Raguette’s large-scale sculptural wall art, Cross Section Ellipse (2021) is a magical membrane that resembles a wall of coral sliced in two. Tange’s interactive Zen garden, The Rise and Fall of Decadence (2021) also evokes the sea—the garden’s sand, and woven sculptural work resemble fishing nets. Aquino’s A 2020 Reflection (2021) offers an homage to a gentle island life, with video, LED candles, flowers and fruit shaping a personal altar of healing and a longing glimpse of nature. Hollen’s Indra’s Net (2015) is a lustrous dreamlike tangle; the reflective glass balls and the fluid nature of the piece also evoke objects washed up from the sea. Partially screened by a bramble of branches from a wildfire, Carrillo’s haunting and mysterious auditory composition Five Sanctuary Songs (2021) rises from a speaker, exuding the rhythm of the sea or the surging of a fire. Bringing us fully to land is the large screen video of Jeff Frost’s Circle of Abstract Ritual (2013). Here, over 300,000 still photos flow from desert to city streets in a hypnotic 12-minute work. Radovanovic’s Descent of the Holy Spirit, (2021) is a mix of earth

and heaven, in which a ladder strung with luminous glass jars leads from a mound of earth exhumed from Angel’s Gate Park. Likewise site-specific is Jenn’s Angel’s Gate Leaf Mandala (2021). Arranged in a circular pattern, the piece transforms dried leaves from the grounds into preserved and precious materials using gold and copper leaf. Equally lovely but more tethered to earth is Myles’ Pieces of Us (2021), a celebration of harvest and hard work combining baskets and black-eyed peas with woven works that hang like delicate ghostly shrouds, recalling those no longer laboring. Getzler unites land and sea with Evocation 1, 2, and 3 (2021). Dried rose petals preserved in bottles—stored in a printer’s drawer—are also the subject of a video filmed by Radovanovic and Jenn where the artist casts the petals into the sea as the Jewish prayer for the dead is performed on the soundtrack. Kuramochi’s The Memory of Physicality (2021) reminds viewers of the ephemeral quality of life in a motion-filled video work surrounded by rivulets of human hair that recalls both sacrifice and necessary culling. Merging elements of earth, air, fire and spirit, “Sanctuary of the Aftermath” provides an exhilarating, beautiful and profoundly moving experience.

Jeff Frost, Circle of Abstract Ritual, 2013. Courtesy Angel’s Gate Cultural Center.