The smell of latex permeates the show, setting the scene in nausea unalleviated by the pepto bismal spread over pinkly over the desk, all adding up to a scrappy and roughshod abjection of framing, of frames' weakly pink made bodily in the dead flesh molding campy ventian blinds open to reveal doodled notations of a crude sexology, schematics, kid stuff in a Cronenberg version, a good show of gross stuff. Wounds as sex objects in the other room.