By the time pandemic pandemonium hit NYC I was well-practiced in trauma management, a gift of my cancer experience last year. A big part of my revival is due to my immersion in art. When everything feels out of control, art is a place where you feel some agency over your life when the street under your feet falls away. Trauma sharpens one’s perception.

In the chaos of mid-March, Heather and I escaped Manhattan for her folks’ small cattle farm in the one-time dairy region of New York. North of the Hamptons-lite Hudson Valley, the landscape is replete with what happens when capitalism leaves your neighborhood behind. Interesting to note that time essentially stops when the economy vanishes from a community. A lot of yesterday. With lockdowns in place, a large swath of America was quickly catching up. We were isolated and safe.

My intention was to bear witness to what I was seeing and feeling: dystopia. In scene two, after two months in rural isolation, I ventured into Manhattan for another view of the lonely. Scene three explodes into revolution in the streets.

The story begins with Heather leaning against a junked car buried away in the woods. Dystopia in her eyes.