Zompetti’s crowd of cyanotypes, little toy houses silhouetted against brilliant blue emulsion—are not quite dollhouses, not quite photographs—they are outlines, dreams of home. Here they pile, all in the corner, every angle imagined. Roofline pitch, door here, window, all the entrances and all the exits—framed and imaginary. Nearby, an overhead-projector holds a house within a house, upside-down. Home hovers on the future horizon overland, beyond, in a projected space, beyond these walls. The masonry presses against it.  
 In another room, monofilament, thin as memory, stitches the closets and cabinets into a frantic web, connecting every corner, holding the room in suspension. The transparent threads trace lost passages through the space, barring its use. Mary Zompetti creates a space to which there is no returning; who are we, standing in the doorway?
 Mary Zompetti, Installation
  An Order  is not a transformation of this space, but a distillation. In its distribution of spaces, sounds, and visions, it doesn’t deliver the past, but what survives it. Here, the fragmentary evidence and lingering atmosphere of the many who passed through the Orphanage join the viewers scuffling from room to room. In an act of conjuring, we wonder about them.  Through the dusty hall, a path.  Essay by  Amy Rahn   T.S. Eliot, “III,” from “Burnt Norton” in  Four Quartets , (San Diego, New York, London: Harcourt, Inc., A Harvest Book, 1943), 17.  Eliot, “V,” from “Burnt Norton” in  Four Quartets , 19.
 In a room across the hall, photographs crop both a dormitory space and the woman within it. A video in slow motion delays closure.  Words, after speech, reach/Into the silence.
 Rebecca Weisman, Installation View
 Rebecca Weisman, Installation View
 Rebecca Weisman, Installation View
 Across an expanse, Sarah O Donnell’s piece pitches across two rooms. In the first, a cord connects a mirrored projection of a dancer to a hidden sound in the next room. As the mirror spins at the end of a line, it throws the projected dancer’s image around the room. She flashes over the walls; the sound laments across the hall. Even when the sound’s source is found inside a suspended bucket held by a line of rope, it remains elusive, mournful. Here, all that is torn asunder is brought not into union, but into proximity, just touching.  
 Sarah O Donnell, Video Installation Still
 In the girls’ bathroom, thousands of ghostly teeth seem to chatter, mid-brushing; over the walls, a profusion of Wylie Garcia’s handpainted black flowers bloom. The mirror is full of them. Medallions of layered marks lovingly drawn ring each other. The inky flowers, cast like a net over the space, gather it like a mother’s arms, holding the pink tiles like hardened memories. Impervious, limned by black marks, the brittle old tiles seem drawn together into a community. Garcia’s blooming graffiti shudders with the resistance of love to harm.
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