Kate Folk, Joel Gregory & Tomas Moniz

HYPERTROPHIC DISTRESS: sculptures by Alex Oslance fusing destructive, chaotic, and sensuous elements inspired by our contemporary fetishization of violence, aggression, and post-coital bliss

NICO PECK, JANICE LOBO SAPIGAO & AJA COUCHOIS DUNCAN

AlterLandEscape: sculpture, video and multi-channel installation works by John Tronsor, May Wilson and Centa Schumacher that remap the height and depth of Aggregate Space Gallery’s physical landscape.

from the chapbook save the monsters (2015)

by Nico Peck

i seeped w/ weak indifference

sank below ground

a light

a lantern in a culvert

this land rots

in the heat

till finding day night

and sleep

through storms and earthquakes

i dreamt

the taste of copper

walked under

dry skies

and i

i, when calm and strong

listened to my sleep talk

my rest, low and close

i knew where to go

under high Polaris

clear charnel marked w/ prayer

tame, i sat – quenched & awake

and then my heart filled

then my hands worked at the rock

and the tree

nearby, a heron stood

still and grey,

tree and rock

at work

hands, my filled

feathers

stirred w/ thirst

sat wild

and unmarked

the rock &nd the tree

the tree and the rock

or

the oak and the rock

what is thrown

away

from my mouth

to save chimera

to save us monsters

the oak and the stone

the stone and the oak

who would be slain

by fear thrown

who would save the trans*

from their subduing
“toward thou I will bend my bow

and speak an oath” – after Pindar

when in the forest & having a dream

of a silvery dragon

emerging or somehow growing out of my torso

the dragon

of my habit, tempered

by old desires left to rot

some say “dragon” comes from the P.I.E. “derk-“

meaning “to see” or perhaps “clear seeing one”

others call dragons worms

but i have felt the heat

of being seen

the burning away of that which does not abet the traveler

an old longing forges rage, yes

“we know to sing reality, when we will”*

o death of death

*from Hesiod

Cristiana Kyung-Hye Baik, Hazel White & Kevin Killian

limen: Amy Rathbone presents an evolving exhibition of cumulative response with some works created directly on the walls, forming a series of individual dedications.

from the chapbook Polaroid (2015)

by Cristiana Kyung-Hye Baik

{ my agency may take me to the simplest of action }
It was a mild day in June, the heat extraordinary. My
attitude of making good to what was, is damaged. It was
of considerable importance, the way the light latticed
through screens, captured from the open sky. A beautiful
lace. As children, you harnessed words, arriving through
their venom, tension, fraught accumulation. Now who will
record this distance, capture this furthering gap’s shadow.
A ledge now burial-aisle. It has become an impossible
task. Wind sluices the window, against the rotted wood’s
slender support. Are you in duress, in this dance of inequity,
as goes the demand, to “get anything something off
your chest?” For you, apologies are aimed to neutralize
behaviors. Signaling in is light’s late flight softly imprinting
my shoulders. I lie in the grass, troubled by this occasion,
this constructional but delicate fault, a what will happen, a
gesture towards broken glass, the tilting of headlights that
fades at last into the emptied promenade, this demolished
fortification.

Ben Black, Gillian Olivia Blythe Hamel & Matt Shears

OLD GROWTH: Terry Peterson’s kinetic sculptures on preservation and decay, masculine identity and human inheritance, informed by his hometown logging community

Excerpt from the chapbook Artifacts (June 2015)

by Ben Black

Homage

I’m looking at all these dead fish, and they’re looking back at me. That look of horror as I slice them down the middle and remove their heads—gets me every time. That’s why I do it here, in front of the window. Something else to look at, out in the yard. That’s why I listen to the police scanner while I gut—I’ve never gutted in silence so I can’t say the fish don’t say anything, don’t comment on what I’m doing. All I hear is static or human voices talking in numbers. Keeps me from hearing the fish’s side of things. What story would a fish tell anyway?

Sometimes it’s too much. When he brings home a full hanger of them I can already feel my legs ache from the time I’ll spend getting guts all over my arms pulling out bones and piling up heads. Sometimes I think I’ll keep the heads—Put ’em in jars on the windowsill, let them see what I see every day. A change of pace. Something besides the dirty river water and the silty river bottom and the ass of the fish in front of them all day long.

And being in the jars will keep them quiet. If they can speak. Maybe I’ll hear a soft mumble, but it won’t bother me much on most days. Today the police scanner is quieter than it’s been in a while. All I’m getting outside of the gentle flow of static is a few staccato beeps every quarter hour. That’s not enough—I could hear a fish speak easy if he chose to. Turning up the volume only sounds like turning on the tap—more static comes flowing out. I’m swimming in it, immersed in a static river piled up with fish corpses. The water barely has room to slide around us, me and the fishheads, sitting together in the middle, looking for a new view.