Menz

Desire is a tangle. It does not resolve.

Stills lifted from pornographic films became the unlikely vignette for something more suffocating than lust — stifled expression, mangled domesticity, the body caught between wanting and the weight of ordinary life. Red tears through each composition like a wound that will not close, caged by the gray banality of chores and labor. All of it suspended on pale seafoam green, a color as placid and indifferent as the life pressing down around it.

A scorched lawn waiting for the rain.