Pull off — it’s okay to cry, or scream — the banal, sticky labels, the branded bandaids hardly holding you together anyway, to fall apart and suddenly re-cohere as the naked truth of your naked self, a beautifully integrated agglomerate of proactive if not paranoid (see infections and pneumonias made of over-reacting antibodies) defenses, as shown, essentially both visibly and actually not other than a shield with heraldic marks conjuring up a cat’s two spear-like narrowed pupils burning bright in the forests of the night. Dare to put forth this naked truth and self, and they will cower in terror disguised as contempt or worship your solid gold, full body halo, they will venerate the silencing effect as itself a shield against awakening awareness (fully woke is a dangerous joke) or redemptive reverie, where defenses undefended, accepted, melt away and suddenly, open to everything, it begins babbling on and on, the book of a talking brook in a true life fairy tale. Oh the insoluble paradox! The poetry! The impenetrable mystery! they will sigh and cry, anything but hear or see you say and be it unflinchingly bearing its endlessly challenging always surprising naked unfolding in the waking world that radiates on and from the purified (broken out of the bandaids) waking one, or Ron preferred “nude” revealed in the final product as it is, like a Botticelli grace, or a nursing mother swathed in Venetian mists, by glare dispelling veils. But you will leak it and one day the world will drown in it. Dona Nobis Pacem. Mark Wright Undated sketch, Ron Gorchov archive, all rights Ron Gorchov estate @saintclaircemin @vito_schnabel @hansulrichobrist @jonathanwoodvincent @Nora Ruth griffin @paul.anel @ivalleria @easyreeder @sophfenwick @bettinamagi1 @tanja_grunert_gallery #rongorchov @phong.h.bui