Contemporary Art in the Americas Arte Contemporáneo en las Américas

Joshing the Watershed

Curated by Alex Chavez

Del Vaz Projetcs Los Angeles, California, USA 01/18/2015 – 03/29/2015

Daniel_Sahlberg_Copyright-¬9M2A7906

Daniel_Sahlberg_Copyright-¬9M2A7711

Daniel_Sahlberg_Copyright-¬9M2A8033

I am laminate. Every entry way reflects somehow, and somehow I am emotional. I have feelings too. The staircase escapes us. Hand me downs inform the form of a stepped stepladder. On the outside I am one step above you. On the inside I am clamoring, because, you see, hands and knees become me. Some bastions look better from above. Some baselines are faced best on their knees. Replete replete and hit that, stone eyed baby, stoned baby, stone-faced baby, stoned stoned baby. Who had me cord strung and leveled? In the glow whole aquariums pucker up; a first kiss flirtation with the end, the afternoon, that hour, and exactly one moment. Mouth opened, haddock flicker when fed.

I want to be you, all right; I want to be your all right, and you get that I want to be your everything. An ascription of I can’t even, having already written the list + The Continental United States in the sand and seen it wash away in the Pacific Ocean. Overheard in the restaurant she said, “I’ll eat anything.” Meet me halfway I say, meet me halfway and maybe we will marry. Arbitration. The separation of conjugal beds. But, even halfway out the door means still basically inside you.

Modulated voice as song for sure, modular furniture brings on the fire sale. A late waste defenestrated, “heave ho into the galleys below.” Before the dust settles from a premonitory impact I remember, there are no rats in Los Angeles. “I will never happen again.” What an acrimonious aloha. But what of those that have something to give? The potlatch will burn an absolved us.

You see, essence is in sense a virus. One side of a two-faced reclines with the other side exposed. On a wheeled arena, self-propelled to the median ledge where she retrieves the cordless phone. She said hello to the tipping point, or unsaved contact comes back for round two, squealing. The steward was drunk again. Essence is in sense a virus. But what makes the caged herd laugh?

Text by Dena Yago

Link: http://delvazprojects.com/

Artists: Math Bass, Sam Davis, Adrian Gilliland, Dwyer Kilcollin, Willa Nasatir, Jessica Williams, Dena Yago

Daniel_Sahlberg_Copyright-¬9M2A7906

Daniel_Sahlberg_Copyright-¬9M2A7711

Daniel_Sahlberg_Copyright-¬9M2A8033

I am laminate. Every entry way reflects somehow, and somehow I am emotional. I have feelings too. The staircase escapes us. Hand me downs inform the form of a stepped stepladder. On the outside I am one step above you. On the inside I am clamoring, because, you see, hands and knees become me. Some bastions look better from above. Some baselines are faced best on their knees. Replete replete and hit that, stone eyed baby, stoned baby, stone-faced baby, stoned stoned baby. Who had me cord strung and leveled? In the glow whole aquariums pucker up; a first kiss flirtation with the end, the afternoon, that hour, and exactly one moment. Mouth opened, haddock flicker when fed.

I want to be you, all right; I want to be your all right, and you get that I want to be your everything. An ascription of I can’t even, having already written the list + The Continental United States in the sand and seen it wash away in the Pacific Ocean. Overheard in the restaurant she said, “I’ll eat anything.” Meet me halfway I say, meet me halfway and maybe we will marry. Arbitration. The separation of conjugal beds. But, even halfway out the door means still basically inside you.

Modulated voice as song for sure, modular furniture brings on the fire sale. A late waste defenestrated, “heave ho into the galleys below.” Before the dust settles from a premonitory impact I remember, there are no rats in Los Angeles. “I will never happen again.” What an acrimonious aloha. But what of those that have something to give? The potlatch will burn an absolved us.

You see, essence is in sense a virus. One side of a two-faced reclines with the other side exposed. On a wheeled arena, self-propelled to the median ledge where she retrieves the cordless phone. She said hello to the tipping point, or unsaved contact comes back for round two, squealing. The steward was drunk again. Essence is in sense a virus. But what makes the caged herd laugh?

Text by Dena Yago

Link: http://delvazprojects.com/

Artists: Math Bass, Sam Davis, Adrian Gilliland, Dwyer Kilcollin, Willa Nasatir, Jessica Williams, Dena Yago

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