The documentation fails to impress the sculptures self-relegation, sent to the corner. Made to appear cast asides. The structures are rigid but the fill, limp; a pathos of lost objects dejected, collected by "cassettes"’s magnetic nostalgic mix-tapes. You could attach all the arcade games of Benjaminian spirituo-materialism, but Pernice's made to ask who could be made to care.
They're depressive basins. An inability to get out of bed, the depressed person finds it difficult to meaningfully construct, to even get erect. Anhedonia. Against the continual rigidifying erectness of R. Harrison, - finally stripped to their commodification essence of perfect reproducible po-mo gems and boring - the loosey-goose game of Pernice is a breeze, a little bathetic, but that's, like, probably the point, you're being made to feel empathy.
