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The sort of Brechtian alienation in the more too-on-the-nose moments make for sadness of communication interuppted by Uran's shoe-gazed shooting of his own feet: videos continuously interrupted, our stilted conversations scripted, half a heart in paint smeared surfaces, a plastic turkey flies in from nowhere to mock you, sentimentality tableaued in irony, a black stallion put down on a table, a teenage angst pre-rupturing its connection to prevent its predicted hurt by a distance placed clearly upon glass to let you know its there.
See too: Group Show at Salle Principale
