DRESSING ROOM is on view now until jan 2026 as part of Black Brick Project’s underground series: 17 N Oxford St. Brooklyn, NY 11249
photos by @aileen.schretz 🏠❤️🩹
Dressing Room opens this Friday (10/24) 6-10 pm at Black Brick Project: an immersive installation with a sounds by Mason Mann. It transforms the the basement into a soft, visceral architecture assembled from discarded domestic materials. Hand-sewn from bedsheets, hosiery, dresses, wax, and copper piping, the structure evokes a cavern or body— an intimate shelter that invites reflection, privacy, and play.
Within this fragile enclosure, recordings of “house sounds”— dripping pipes, home videos, clinking dishes, and distant voices resonate through the garment walls, blurring distinctions between interior and exterior, comfort and unease. The installation reimagines domestic space as a living organism that breathes, digests, and listens.
Dressing Room extends my ongoing exploration of the home as both refuge and performance, drawing from my experience living inside a vintage shop surrounded by the cast-off garments and identities of others. Through the slow labor of hand-sewing and repurposing of familiar materials, the work reflects on matrilineal care, psychic attachment, and the fragility of comfort in a world of decay.
This new installation continues my practice of building womb-like architectures that invite intimacy and collective contemplation and disintegration.
come ~creaturely~
people in public are always saying to me- “your backpack is open”. i take this to mean i wear my heart on my sleeve, or the good ol phrase, “your fly is open”. i think they are concerned a stranger might take it. (my heart, i mean). i understand their concern but even if i have nothing, i still have something within my skin. and maybe i want my heart taken! or maybe it was never mine to begin with. maybe it’s like a game of hot potato. someone gave me their heart, and now it’s singeing my skin. hearts are so delicious-looking from afar until you carry one around in your backpack all day and it sinks to the bottom and gets heavier like brass when you run. and you run and it then it leaks and makes burn holes in the fabric. and then sometimes you get really small and crawl into the backpack to check on your heart and the lighting gets all dim and the muffled tones of people talking and shifting feels oddly familiar. and then you remember this backpack was really just a belly turned inside out all along.
i deconstruct this installation like packing clothes after a trip, soaked and reeking of the flesh of ur new identity - a moth in flight
🤳
I am stoked & giddy to have the opportunity present an immersive installation alongside some wild, untamed and talented performances and artists at ChaShaMa’s Bizarre Bazaar this Saturday June 21st. Come through and unleash 🍬 ticket link in bio 💌
living in a vintage shop has coveted a relationship to clothes and their personas as place. the textiles are my walls, they carry traces of lives I never knew, leftover identities, and potential for new inhabitants.
You dreamt of the taste of honeysuckles when you saw the pane cry one tear— it held the orb of a leaf and now you mistake this memory as pretty. It was before your brain formed nouns for these structures that make up a home— it was before you were told where and when the meaning of a window stopped. It would stop time and your brain would allow that. It feels pointless to write for nothing because it never actually felt alive— that moth that played dead deep in the basement of your gut.
perhaps when i was a piece of furniture, you discovered what it meant to lean on something that was a someone! what if a chair could talk? would it be muffled and suffocated by your fleshy weight — blobbing and sinking into a hungry ground howling for companionship and untethered merging? the soil beneath the footprint of your home whines, rattles, and interrogates during witching hour. in sleep, your bones unfold into tent poles and birth itself out of chrysalis into a nomadic shape that crawls and eventually flies.
im within the background of a lost embrace🤳, trembling and misunderstanding the difference betweeen surrender •••and superficiality👓’ i lose myself in the wake of a miscomprehended reality.. only to retell our fickle🕸️🕸️🕸️ passes without narrative. only slippery sentences losing shape and stability. trembling in the basket of your brain. wanting to fight 🐇🐾without the seamless recognition of dissonance and the inner workings of our womb places: ~in this sense i amount to nothing besides each other and, of course, our forgotten inhibitions — this is how i return full fledged without dismembering my tasteful• independence }and inter|dependent realities — they often switch in between divisions. why do i feel like im about to be intruded upon? is my inner space deliberate enough for your taste? or are we internally losing traction without inherent memory? 🌪️i lose the features of your face so soon that i cannot bear to dismember the sadness, they sway together amidst the _flick’ of a tongue or the splatter of a warm trance, we are unjustified without internal landscapes to come home to. +we lose our footing in the horrors of discombobulation, i see your ideas stuck in the pupils of your fathers 🍭🍬eyes they lay beneath the sticky curtain drop of those velvet eyelids— they switch between the inconceivable dynamics. we are and they are inherent in their longings. in their sudden craving for glory. they make advocacy within the pinch of a tasteful dance — mixed with fresh berries and their never ending gait🚲 gleaming and behaving without the fickle trickle between two independent commotions: we are internally lost in the muck of each other’s subconscious . 🫨🍯
SQUIRM!
a dreamlet (about carpet pores, written half awake): the place felt like pop candy art digestion. like it was transforming us— the floor was moving like a tongue and there were these giant pregnancy pillows attempting to take us and eat us. she was letting the room take her where it pleased. she was almost having sex with it— like we were in this private culture that wanted us to act out our deeply natural impulses because the room itself was doing that. i was tired of feeling stiff and frozen l. it was all encompassing. it started to consume me and eventually i allowed myself to be eaten by the room, i cut my hair & watched it in the mirror — i woke with an urgent desire to urinate
