It's painfully obvious that I would like the current show at Team Gallery by Banks Violette. And while the main piece (the sole sculpture, the lone ranger) called ZODIAC (F.T.U.)/74 ironhead SXL, resembles ET (my most hated movie character) when he's ash white and dead in the gutter (my most hated moment), somehow it makes me feel luxuriously sick and nervous and fascinated and anticipatory all at the same time.
Maybe because motorcycles act as horses for classic American rebels (Brando in The Wild One, Hopper in Easy Rider, duh). Or maybe because a crash is always the most brutal, perfect, existential metaphor for life. I don't know, but the press release does a better job than I do, explaining Violette's study of "America’s morbid fascination with disposable celebrity, and our constant need to construct mythologies of total success and absolute failure."