With a beaded gate of iridescent stars, it has impressive modernist seats with curved arms and leather fabric. It has, on top of one such seat, a shelf with zebra-stripes that prevents anyone from sitting. Like a lewd garment, all along, there is embroidered appliqué glued flat and a drawing of a wasp humming irately and circulating.
The ground is knobby with the edges of wooden limbs covered in slipcover extensions, pouches, for their protrusions. A toppling pile of chairs clink together in top-to-bottom verticality. Their caning is broken from the weight of dinner guests in their past, held together with a smearing of sawdust and wood glue, what could otherwise be mistaken for ground brownie crumbs slathered in their broken weave. In the center rests a shoe rack covered in webbed gargoyle talons like claws from a rhinestone hair clip. When the island goes dark, lampshades click on. The full moon is reminiscent of reptilian shells, splintered into overturned parts.
Life is devoid of personal artifacts. There are no translucent shelves with heart-shaped peepholes, no rickety wheels, no erratically placed zip-ties, and no hollow cornucopia nearby. On the outskirts are rooms that have never held someone inside, never witnessed someone sitting on the edge of tempered glass. Never had a tabletop flip right-side-up, glass in the air like a seesaw, with the dead weight of a person sitting on one edge.
A sculpture on a plinth with a world carved inside, it is a stacked shelf with glass cells reminiscent of a shopping center. Stacked with differentiated quarters. Accumulated interiors that elude purpose. Where empathy lies in the mania. Where, in the work of Jessi Reaves, rawness is brought forward as a frontal face. A fact. Where the world combats its own functionality.
Text by Erin Leland