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Where water once symbolized the psyche is now our subconscious toilet, our autumnal metal, hellish networks of pipes rusting like our blood, carrying shit beneath feet, behind our faces, our love, diamonds, repressions, whichever. The PR mentions the Guggenheim's storied tubes, queuing turds down pipes while visitors line up for the higher purpose of placing things beneath us. The symbolic paths manifold. The point being: this is no longer the romantic era representing ourselves as fathomless depths; we are now better represented as plumbing: neurons, serotonin, fluids directed, misunderstood as monsters. All plain in Matranga's very unromantic depiction, refusing to state how we should feel about these things except any way but grand.