Saturday, January 24, 2026 at 1:00 PM to Saturday, February 28, 2026 at 1:00 PM
Wolfpack HQ, Gardena
An artist’s recesses become a condition, a preparation to transmit, a commitment to oneself. —Luchita Hurtado We were involved with a kind of meditation, and for me this had a great deal to do with the study of nature, and the study of pattern…We were dealing with art as a way of meditation.—Lee Mullican Sunrise is a prayerI wake inside consecutive nights to Jupiter,glowing blue above a Los Angeles freewayRemembering feels sharper now.These days, I think more concretely under what presses.I want my body to be heard in what I offerMy car etches a repeated line from the city to the desert, to where the land quiets and the sky fills I want to hear something delivered from deep within the earth I wait in still moments, light and dark, for what arrivesI walk an emptied ocean floor, aimless—under stars, sun, clouds, strewn The kitten frenzied, chases his own tailbathed in orange light, an open question Mouth wet, teeth newThe plants drink thirstily the hot dry dayWater lurches from the faucet— Miraculous My father told me:When you look into the eyes of a cat, you see yourselfWhen you stare upon a mountain, you gaze into a mirrorWhen you look at another person, you see your reflection When I look out on the horizon, I see hope.If all consciousness is God, there’s no room for stature, just offerings We splinter because heavy forces want distanceYet, I think we ache the same and hear each other's thoughts, fears images, sounds, objects, conjurings The enduring conversation perseveresWhat is made proliferates, settles Seeds cast to windA child’s dance with a flowerFragments scattered By breath, by handsTime and places touch And the sun retreats from one sky for another A lamp lit elsewhereThen we sleep;Humbled by our joint need for rest We tumble into beginning again —Zoe Koke Along the rungs of detachment, ascent and return lead to true nature. In a photo of the artist as a child she’s guided between sisters’ hands. Lead by careful grips they mind the ground as she looks up from under yellow bangs toward the adult behind the camera. “If the eye were not sun-like, how could it behold the light?” (1) Open receptors to living currents, belonging wherever beauty is witnessed, like the porous attention of animals. A bird sings in the face of an ambivalent, salt-bitten earth. Sincere, attuned, often dismissed as naïve, its call erodes self-righteousness, emptying domination and cynicism. At the song’s horizon we’re left to wade in infinite presence—to reconcile tomorrow as hopeful promise and shared fate. Blue Sky and Yellow Sunflower (2): paintings, drawings, photography, sculpture, are evidence of such. Bed is the studio, meditation is the studio, solitude is the studio, kitchen table is the studio, music is the studio, road is the studio, friendship is the studio, light is the studio, detritus is the studio, walking is the studio, waiting is the studio, reading is the studio, desert is the studio, studio is the studio, sensation is the studio1.Goethe, Zahme Xenien, 17962.Song by Susumu Yokota, 2004