When Art has a Life of it's Own.

Back in February, I made a sculpture for a show at the PoetHouse.  I wrapped myself, and stand-in Tia, with saran wrap, covered that in packing tape, cut it off me, put it back together, then made scales out of dress patterns.  I was creating a cicada shell for myself.  It looked like this:

Considering it wasn't very structurally sound, and that I didn't really have anyplace to permanently install it,  it got moved around the poetHouse.  I had plans to take it out to the desert and light it on fire and take photos of it, but that didn't end up happening.  So, when I moved out of the poetHouse, I said goodbye to it and placed it on top of the Dumpster in Tin Pan Alley.

And then, it showed up at the new music venue/art and cowboy shirt retail space the Horned Hand.  The Double H has coyote pelts and antlers adorning its walls, so I suppose the piece kinda makes sense there.  Discarded skins and faux discarded skin.  But now, the sculpture has become a dance partner for waltzing across the peanut covered floor, and is also on flyers for upcoming shows.  It's perched on the couches, and on the owners vintage bike.   I find this very amusing.  It's kind of like an art zombie. 

Watch out.