East Village, New York
David Ostrowski
Even The Most Beautiful Woman Ends At Her Feet
OkoAn artist's breath, captured. Music sucks. Pristine white panels hung edge-to-edge, marking time. F. Absence as a staged photograph. War. A simple wooden plinth displaying an artist's aura. Imagine If. Empty storefront as exhibition. Perfume. Turning the lights on and off in a room. No possibilities. A piece of paper, stared at for hours. I would prefer not to. Hiding as performance. To annoy. Erasing a drawing, over a month. Never. A music score composed of silence. Julio Iglesias. Poems written in the sky. I want to die forever. Raw canvas with barely perceptible traces of footprints. Sex. Fade to white. Let loose.