Oversized shurikens, each a lovely shade of baby pastel twinkle, embedded as if thrown along the perimeter of where ceiling meets wall. Around their orbit hang miniature Alexander Calderish mobiles in itself another self-contained universe ad infinitum.
The constellations then form haphazard patterns all over Jackson Pollock armwrestling Elsworth Kelly that appear quite dangerously razor sharp. Yet the weight of these Oldenburgian worlds feel heavyhanded to the degree that nothing light exists about how these pentagrammic forms behave in the modest company of chevrons, poured drips or target circles.
Following the trajectory of an open face club, a sand wedge, though, so intently often strains the neck muscle beyond the normal stratospheric airspace violation. Neil Armstrong does take aim and drive the capsule several light years away.
The heavens full of pent-up fury descend.