Come as you are…
At the apartment, tasteful apartment.
Isn’t this why we go to the shows?
What’s black and white and red all over?
Michael opening two bottles of wine with a screwdriver.
The tables spread with the post nosh, and someone’s been smearing it everywhere.
The supplements, the checklists. They’re covered in it. Purples and blues and greens and greys.
The sculptures sit on the table, teetering. And who’s stupid idea were those anyway?
Seen and unseen.
As offensive as a pedestal.
Put them on the floor.
I feel nice, I feel funny. Have you heard the one about the party house?
It was not midnight. It was not raining.
No vibrance please, just greys. Just the monochrome, please.
We love the smooth cold greys.
The cold smooth greys of your gallery floor,
the cold smooth greys of your Comme des Garçons wallet,
the smooth cold greys of you Free Run 2s.
Only minor indulgences until now.
Ninety-five dollar running shoes like eating through your stomach staples, like pissing your pants.
Now they’re all covered in it. Can’t wash your hands of this.
Catch of the day, model of the year, and how much do you think it sells for?
Staleness as a dry cracker.
Let me smear it on you.
Isn’t this why we go to the shows?

By Jeffrey Joyal

Written on the occasion of Deptford Banquet Table Structure at Public House Projects