“I Like You”: VHS Amateur Night’s Adorable Harpy and Monstrous Desire

“I like you,” she says.

She is a somewhat out of place young woman in a bar named Lily. He, who she looks imploringly at while repeating that she likes him at various intervals, is Clint, who is recording the nights events with the camera glasses he’s wearing. It is from the perspective of these glasses that we’ll see the nights events unfold. Just as Lily stands out from the rest of the women at this bar, appearing awkward and quirky, Clint’s faux nerdy appearance and lower body mass differentiates him from the jock fuck-boys with whom he is friends. We’ll find out that Lily is very much not like other girls, whereas Clint is exactly like his friends; we’ve seen moments earlier that they make a habit of filming women without their consent in a perverse kind of male bonding, and that is exactly what Clint intends to do on this night.

Clint (and friend) testing out the camera glasses

Clint (and friend) testing out the camera glasses

Amateur Night is one segment in the horror anthology VHS (2012), for which different directors have created different found footage short films. Thematically and stylistically different, they are united by their adherence to the found-footage paradigm in which the recording device is an acknowledged and explained part of the narrative universe. Many found footage films do this by imitating the societal norm of recording one’s day-to-day life (holidays and so on) or playing to the long-held suspicion that recording devices might reveal the supernatural. Amateur Night is unique in that it imitates the violation of one’s autonomy through technological means. Rather than watching someone’s happy snaps that managed to capture an unfolding horror, we begin with something intended to be exploitative.

Beginning from exploitation is a bold but natural move in a genre with such strong ties to it, just as taking the form of non-consensual porn is at home with the misogyny of which the horror genre is accused. The difference is that in Amateur Night, the male gaze and masculine sexual violence is juxtaposed with something much more frightening – unrestrained female desire. I say juxtaposed because there is only a slight moment in which these desires meet – when Clint’s friend Shane attempts to initiate sex with a responsive Lily. However, Lily only seems to truly desire Clint, and in his absence, the moment quickly descends into chaos. Other than this moment, the desires of the men and Lily’s desires are almost parallel, inconsequential to each other. 

It’s commonly thought that horror and sex, or violence and desire, are a man’s domain, evidenced from Hitchock echoing Sardou’s advice to ‘torture the women’ in film, horror theorists such as Brigid Cherrie and Rikke Shubart having to justify their own interest in the genre and establish scholarship to attest to women’s presence and engagement with it, not to mention the recent statement from horror heavyweights Blumhouse Productions that the ladyfolk just don’t make horror. I’ve faced this prejudice as a female artist with an interest in horror, often asked to justify my interest in the genre or to make a statement reconciling the (perceived) misogyny of the genre with my status as woman. The implication is clear; a woman’s interest in such material (whether horrific or misogynistic) is novel, if not unacceptable, while a man’s is to be expected. Men intertwine violence and horror with masculinity, ignoring the experience of half of the population. Scholars such as Joel Black conceive of eroticism as being the domain of violation, but how many women would describe the experiences they defined as erotic in terms of violation? And to whose violation are they referring?

 Amateur Night is compelling because it touches on these questions, flipping the conventional narratives around men, women and sexual violence on their head. In Amateur Night, we find that women are just as at home in horror and violence as men, if not more so, though the negotiate its terrain differently. For the men, their erotic encounters are bound up in their wilful violation of women’s consent, while Lily’s violence seems borne out of genuine hurt and animalistic impulse. The men are a pack, their underhanded exploitation of women acting as pastime and the glue that holds them together, while Lily tries desperately and openly to ingratiate herself to the object of her affections, resorting to violence only when this fails. For the men, eroticism is shared among them while violence is directed at those they cast as sexual objects, while Lily directs her erotic energy at the objects of her desire and reserves violence for those that wrong her.

Nonetheless, Amateur Night is a film about women’s desire in a world framed by men’s – indeed, we see Lily’s desire through the literal lens that would be used by men to exercise erotic control over women. Just as it plays in the cultural narrative of men’s violence, it also reflects the societal framing of women’s desires – or any sexuality outside the masculine heterosexual paradigm – as monstrous. Where Amateur Night’s dissection of female and male desire is interesting is that Lily is not just a monster; she is a sexual being profoundly lacking in the ability to communicate her desires. Through the male lens she appears both naïve and lustful, inhumanly powerful but oddly endearing.

The Horror Film Wiki describes Lily as “a bit naive as she follows three men to their motel room with little persuasion”, which to me represents a failure to read the text; we know that not only is Lily in no danger of physical violence, but that she is actively pursuing what the men have to offer. We would hardly describe a man as naïve for going home with three willing women; this false framing of Lily’s naivety emphasises that we see sex and violence as men’s weapons and women as their receptacles.

A partially transformed Lily hovers about Clint in a stairwell

A partially transformed Lily hovers about Clint in a stairwell

No, Lily’s naivety is shown by her interactions with Clint, in whom she appears to have a genuine, if immature, fixation. Lily parrots “I like you”, as if this is all that it would take, that masculine desire is necessarily receptive to female desire. Her limited vocabulary is a hint at her non-human nature, but also a literal symptom of her inability to express her desires in a way that communicates their depth and that is understood by the men at which she aims her affection; Clint seems politely flattered, if a little weirded out, by the phrase, and certainly doesn’t appear to interpret it as a declaration of desire. She is completely blind to the parameters of (human) masculine desire, chasing after Clint partially transformed after she’s murdered his friends and appearing delighted to be reunited with him at the bottom of a stairwell, where he has fallen and broken his wrist. When he is unresponsive to her sexual advances, she appears to not understand, asking “No like?” – whether she’s asking is he doesn’t like what she’s doing or doesn’t like her (or if she can even differentiate these two things) is unclear - before descending into a fit of sorrow. Her hurt is eventually turned onto her would-be lover, who has managed to get away from her at this point; Lily sprouts wings, recaptures Clint and flies away with him, his glasses falling to the ground and ending the recording.

Lily’s lack of communication skills and her devastation when the object of her affections rejects her advances speaks to the difficulty in communicating desire when it is framed as not for you, of finding the language for your desire when the existence of your desire is denied. Of course Lily fails to understand her circumstance; the cultural narrative is that men are desirous creatures and that any sexual attention should be gladly received. Her monstrousness, while tied to her sexuality, is not the evil seductress we might be accustomed to nor the perverse female sadist, just as her violence is not part of some rape-revenge arc that permits women enact violenve upon men. Sure, we might not feel particularly sorry for Clint and company, and we do feel sorry for Lily as she cries in the stairwell, but this is not the story of an avenging femme fatale, but of a woman restricted by male-centric narratives of desire and the pain she feels trying to assert her desires with no framework to do so. Lily is an example of the emotional consequences when women’s desires are crushed by a society that takes male experience as the totality of sexual expression, her monstrousness borne from these societal norms rather than an expression of them.

The exclusion of women from the realms of desire, horror and sex, and the foregrounding of men’s experiences or interpretation is rife within the horror genre and, to a degree, art that deals with it. Works like Fuseli’s The Nightmare (1781) are touted as art-horror exemplars, yet the work can be summarised as on object of Fuseli’s sexual frustration over a woman who, from all accounts, in no way returned his feelings. As a woman, it’s pathetic at best, downright creepy at worst. Meanwhile, Ophelia has become beautiful death personified, put on everything from tea towels to terrible murals, yet in the face of how awful a way to die drowning allegedly is and the precedent for drowning to be used as a solution to the ‘problem’ of immoral women, I fail to see the beauty in it. People will revere countless works like this that eroticise the passivity of women, yet when faced with a little stabbing will ask ‘But what about the misogyny?’ Lily’s violence might be more shocking, but Clint’s is much more insidious, and sadly more common. Outright violence is often rare and easy to disavow; the violence inherent in a society that eroticises female passivity and casts them as receptacles for the desires of men is pervasive and often unseen.

Fuck Machine (2018)  , treating  The Nightmare  with the reverence it deserves

Fuck Machine (2018) , treating The Nightmare with the reverence it deserves

It is a hard thing to navigate. Just as Lily possesses great agency that is constrained by the male gaze, my work necessarily exists within a male dominated field within a male dominated society. So far my solution is twofold; to foreground my own experiences and desires in an effort to forge a language that might articulate feminine hunger, and to create spaces of horror, of desire, of violation, where I am at home. If society asserts that horror and desire are a man’s domain, then women must make their own domains, ones in which they might revel while men are othered, which are ordered by the alien logic of feminine desire, or which take the assumed erotic and violent relationships between the sexes and amplify them until they become terrible mirrors from which viewers can’t turn away. With every attempt, I ask - is it your domain now? What about now? What about now? - and hope, just as Clint’s wrong-footedness had him crashing down to Earth, that the discomfort provided to the dominant mindset in these spaces evokes a similar change in perspective.

All You Have To Do Is Ask;  absolutely my domain

All You Have To Do Is Ask; absolutely my domain

Playing to win, playing to lose; child’s play, play fighting, and the parental middle ground

Given that my practice revolves around horror, it’s not unusual that I find myself asked for recommendations or reflections on recent horror films. More recently when this has happened, I’ve found myself sheepishly trying to explain that I haven’t had the stomach for much, instead gravitating towards what I term fluffy horror; the tried and true favourites, whose narratives pathways are well worn and whose tales end in triumph. During this time of emotional unwillingness to engage with my beloved genre other than in this seemingly shallow way, I lapsed back into an old habit, in which I skip entire parts of films, treating them like a choose-your-own-adventure novel wherein everything works out for the protagonist (read: the viewer).

The film to receive this treatment the most was 2017’s IT: Chapter 1, in part because it’s a fun film, and in part because in a prolonged bout of aimlessness I couldn’t be bothered to replace the DVD.  My positive feelings towards IT stem from multiple sources; the narrative structure is kinetic, fast paced, the visuals glorious, a roller-coaster ride in which jump scares balanced rather than dominated narrative. The audience in the cramped theatre in which I saw it jumped and squealed (no one more than the girl whose leg I accidentally grabbed while reaching for my phone during a particularly tense moment). My first taste of it was fun and it has yet to lose its flavour.

But further than fun, I found it to be a touching examination of children’s grief, both Bill’s as he remains steadfast in his search for Georgie, never quite believing that he’s gone, and the rest of the loser’s club as the navigate their friend’s grief, at times on the periphery, at times sucked into it. The scene where Pennywise-Georgie tells Bill he wants to go home was painful to watch, his uttering words Bill has no doubt hungered to hear, and Bill both breaks and doesn’t, admitting that he wants that “more than anything”, and yet firing a bolt through the head of Georgie’s doppelganger and not succumbing to fear in those terrible, too-long  moments when it seems he has killed him. As someone who experienced loss months into my teens, the way that IT dealt with death and grief resonated, and yet when I watched IT ad infinitum, these were the scenes that were removed. Georgie’s death. The scene where Bill’s dad finds the model of the sewer system and yells at him that Georgie is dead. False-Georgie pleading for Bill to take him home.

Pennywise-Georgie lies on the ground Bill puts a bolt through his head

Pennywise-Georgie lies on the ground Bill puts a bolt through his head

It seemed of course that my own recent motherhood was to blame for this reluctance to deal with child-death, and it would be simple to look at the inclusion of children in Stephen King’s narratives as a shock tactic. However, King’s treatment of children as true protagonists, existing in their own world as opposed to being features of an adult world throws this into question. In a reversal, adults become the background noise, the emotional or plot-driven collateral (such as the death of officer Bowers). The decision to centre his dark narratives on children was confusing, made more so that this decision seemed to trigger a desire to identify with the children that was nonetheless inhibited by my adultness.

My confusion at this aspect of King’s work in far from unique, and upon looking is something that author has addressed at length. The crux of it is this; that King’s stories are children’s stories. As adults we look at Kings stories and see children in peril, and believing that our job is to protect our children from peril, we experience fear. But children know they are in peril; they are implicitly aware of their vulnerability, of the monsters that would do them harm. Rather than introducing terrors and shattering childlike innocence, Kings narratives give children the chance to see themselves as victors. The type of child’s play on which King’s philosophy is based, which is often macabre or violent, is the mechanism by which children conquer fear, cocooned safely from reality. And seemingly, when we reach adulthood, it is a mechanism which we’ve outgrown, whose uses we’ve forgotten but whose tie to fear lingers. The point, however, remains; as adults, we are not at the centre of these stories.

As I was trying to reconcile my new appreciation for the function of King’s narratives with my unfamiliar position as someone other than the narrative’s primary demographic and my continued unwillingness to watch Georgie be dragged screaming and armless into the gutter, I came across Rikke Schubart’s text Mastering Fear and the theory of playfighting. Paraphrasing (and probably poorly given I’ve only read her ripper of a foreword having been unable to access the full text) she asserts that the function of horror’s narratives, particularly for women, is akin to playfighting. While she’s far from the first author to link horror and play, playfighting is a thing with sharper edges, edges upon which we risk catching ourselves upon through our engagement with the genre. There are of course rules of engagement, the ability to stop, to return to reality, to remind oneself that what one experienced was a fiction, a simulation, an emotional or perceptual shadow of what the real experience would entail. But there is also the competitive edge, the desire to win, so see a thing through, for endurance, muscle and grit to be rewarded. Most importantly, when we playfight, there are winners and there are losers, and we cannot find ourselves on the upside every time.

Child’s play is the mechanism by which children are allowed to see themselves as victors and conquerors; playfighting is the mechanism by which adults must come to terms with seeing themselves as losers. Child’s play emboldens children to march into the big scary world; playfighting forces us to consider our eventual departure. For women, playfighting is especially important. Through playfighting, we develop the capabilities to face a world against us, practicing again and again, rehearsing the actions which might liberate us from danger. More importantly, playfighting offers the vital chance to accept that we may do everything right and still fail. These are the sharp edges to which I refer; inherent in Schubart’s theory of horror consumption as playfighting is the understanding that it is not without risks.

For the viewer this risk manifests not in fleeting fear, but lasting emotional trauma. Even with all of the love I hold for the genre, I have seen or read things that have left me feeling sullied and avoided certain films for the fear that watching them would damage my psyche beyond what I am willing to endure.

The risk with horror is that this trauma is often unanticipated. Like a sharp edge, one might not see it before they’ve caught themselves on it, as was the case when I first saw The Witch (2015), a film that follows a devout Christian family beset by witchcraft. Early in the film the protagonist, Thomason, has her baby brother stolen from under her watch; the viewer is shown that the baby is killed by a witch, its body turned to mush to be used in a ritual. A new parent to one at this stage, this scene bathed me in a dread that didn’t quite disappear for the duration of the film, mirroring the irrational fears that plagued me each time I put my baby down to sleep. In my most absurd moment, I considered leaving the cinema to protect my baby, to assure myself of his wholeness. In a less absurd moment, I took my phone out to message his father to enquire about his wellbeing. In a sensible moment, I put the phone away.

The family at the centre of  The Witch

The family at the centre of The Witch

The Witch so beautifully fleshes out the fears and motivations of the beset family members, and yet at its centre is a young girl on the cusp of womanhood, constrained by her family’s ultra-piousness and the societal norms which she seems to have little option but to follow. So constrained is Thomason that we the viewer are treated to few moments in which we might surmise that she is unhappy with her lot in life There are fleeting moments, like her playing at being the witch that her younger sister accuses her of being in order to frighten the younger girl into line, or when she lashes out at her father’s deceit that has alienated her from her mother, but nothing that a contemporary audience would take to suggest Thomason would willingly pledge herself to the devil after the complete destruction of her family. It is only in the final few scenes that we see Thomason’s desire in full; when Black Phillip asks her if she would like to live deliciously –that Thomason had a concept of deliciousness, the constraints of her life obscuring how much she must have hungered for such a thing – and the final scene, in which she ventures nude into the forest, ascending into the night’s sky surrounded by the witches that beset her family, the camera focused close on her ecstatic face.

Thomason at the film’s conclusion

Thomason at the film’s conclusion

The Witch is foremost a tale of a young woman given agency in a world which would have otherwise afforded her none. From this perspective, it is a heady thing for the viewer to imagine themselves as Thomason, to have nothing and to be given everything, and she is easy to empathise with, having been falsely accused of being a witch as her family is picked off one by one. And it is not that her parents are entirely unsympathetic – if anything, her mother’s resentment of her situation and grief over her children is entirely understandable, as is her father’s steadfast yet futile attempts to protect and provide for his family and his awareness that it is he that has lead them into this hostile environment. Rather, it is that we are given more of Thomason, including the impression that she is faultless in the family’s misfortunes.

From this perspective, The Witch is a tale of a victor. Yet my own viewing experience was overshadowed by the death of that lovely baby, and an instinctual, visceral understanding of the parents’ grief. I flip between being Thomason, vindicated, imagining the first taste of pleasure I’ve had in my life and surveying the vast road ahead which offers more, more, more, and being that mother, who in a fit of sorrow attempts to murder her firstborn, thinking that in such an instance I might be glad to die than to live on in such a terrible circumstance. In IT, I am Bill, vanquisher of demons, avenging my brother, yet I am also that peripheral, sad mother or the grieving father for whom his remaining child’s hope is a special kind of pain.

To watch stories of children in horror as a parent is to occupy dual states of viewership. The affective potency of such narratives is it is the ability of the subgenre to inspire in its audiences an uneasy contradiction in identification. The dread inspired by such narratives is two-fold; it is the dread of losing, and the dread of losing something precious. As children, we wish to slay the beast; as parents, we hope that our children won’t need to take that risk, that we might shoulder it for them or engineer a world without danger. When we watch children march into battle, as parents we brace to lose, knowing that it is not merely about our own life or death, that there are circumstances under which survival becomes a failing.

And yet it is not just that such narratives serve a new and different function to adult audiences, it is that the ghost of their initial, oft intended function lingers. It is all too easy to look at horror’s narratives as primarily serving an adult audience, and simpler still to confine oneself to narratives built around and derived from the adult experience. However, there is richness to be explored in alien terrain, particularly when that terrain is one we once knew intimately, but have forgotten, uncanny rather than alien. Flickering between adult understanding and the ghostly memories of learning to win ourselves creates an unease as fear, necessity, reluctance, and bravery battle, as one fears for one’s life and the quality of it if it were to continue. Parents were all children. It can be confusing to know which one we’re supposed to be when both roles are available.

We Suffer From Inward Growth 3 , photograph by Rosina Possingham

We Suffer From Inward Growth 3, photograph by Rosina Possingham

As my work addresses my own experience of motherhood more and more, and as I grapple with the fact that I am a mother, but I am so many other things, the power and potential of offering multiple states of viewership is especially relevant. Perhaps this is what I was working through when I made ‘We Suffer From Inward Growth’, a series that cast me as the gargantuan mother, the children that bind her and the children she’s bound to herself. Parenthood has made these states contradictory; I don’t know how to reconcile me as child with me as mother, any more than I can reconcile my role as nurturer with my selfishness or the overwhelming love I feel with my rage or my melancholy. Perhaps it is more important not to reconcile these states, and to rather let them fight it out through my viewers, the unstable ground more compelling than a singular, cohesive point of view. Perhaps there are times when we need to learn to win, and other times when we need to learn to lose, just as we need space to be nurturing and loving and space to rage and howl and be self-interested. More and more I believe that as humans we need that uneven terrain to teach us to balance ourselves, that we must not lose the shadows of what we were before, and I am glad for the narratives that allow parents to be children, especially when the stakes are so high.

2016-2017 group shows

Just a quick update about some group shows I've been involved in over the last year. In Late 2016 I had the chance to exhibit my work in the Philippines as a part of two group exhibitions. One was at the space 98B COLLABoratory, where I showed the series "I AM BORN AGAIN HARD", and the other was an exhibition called "Inside Outside Inside On" at J-studio.

"Inside Outside Inside On presents work by a group of emerging artists from Australia and the Philippines who seek to investigate and manifest internal aspects of human experience. The artists in this exhibition look underneath clothes, behind eyelids, beneath the skin, and inside the mind, extracting and exploring what they find to reveal that which is usually hidden from view. From flesh and entrails to violent fantasies and visual hallucinations, inner worlds and workings are externalised and exposed for all to see. Any sense of violation is negated by the artists’ active participation in this act. It is both confronting and comforting to be in this way
exposed to the universal strangeness of ourselves."

Both of these exhibitions were organised by Boxplot, and I was awarded a Graduate Support Grant from Adelaide Central School of Art to assist with the cost of exhibiting the work. Below are some install shots and an image of my new series of gold prints, "This Is Mercy", that was exhibited at J-Studio. 

I was also delighted to be invited to be a part of an exhibition called "Hidden Agenda" at Trocadero Artspace in Melbourne. Curated by Casey Jenkins of Craft Cartel, "Hidden Agenda" was an exploration of hidden and suppressed gender worlds by 30+ female & gender-queer visual artists, activists & performers from 4 continents performing both live & by proxy. I was invited to show my work "All Due Restraint", and thoroughly enjoyed the process of installing it all over again. With so many figurines and a different support to install them on, each install offers the oppurtunity for different relationships between the figures to be created. 

The exhibition was also photographed by Matto Lucas (+Melbourne Art Review). Below are some of those images and you can see the whole lot here: http://mattolucas.com/melbourne-art-review/hidden-agenda

MORE 2015!

Just a short blog post. Aside from exhibiting my work in Melbourne with Brunswick Street Gallery, I also contributed a work to the annual FELTspace auction. The work in question (shown below) was a one off edition of 'I Am The Hydra' painted gold. It was the result of studio experimentation with painting or coating my own figurines, and it was great to have someone like it enough to want to take it home!

ope to see Now I am busy making works for my solo show at Floating Goose Studios in February of 2016, as well as working on two installation pieces for 'Otherworld'. This exhibition is in November, it's hosted in Glenside's beautiful and somewhat creepy Z Ward, and is the perfect site for what I have planned. I'm very excited, and  I'll be exhibiting with some awesome artists, so it's sure to be a blast. 

That's all for now!

-Jess

2015 so far

After a small break after my two shows at the end of 2014, 2015 has been about me getting back into the studio, and trying to fit that around my other commitments. While I'm working towards a new body of work, I've been fortunate enough to be involved in some groups shows. The first of which was A Spring In My Step at Aelaide Central gallery. In addition to my gold steel works from View Master, I also exhibited some new sculptures.

I Am The Hydra, 3D printed Plastic, 2015

I Am The Hydra, 3D printed Plastic, 2015

You'e No Fun Any More (2), 3D printed plastic, varnished walnut plywood, 2015

You'e No Fun Any More (2), 3D printed plastic, varnished walnut plywood, 2015

You'e No Fun Any More (1), 3D printed plastic, varnished walnut plywood, 2015

You'e No Fun Any More (1), 3D printed plastic, varnished walnut plywood, 2015

You'e No Fun Any More (3), 3D printed plastic, varnished walnut plywood, 2015

You'e No Fun Any More (3), 3D printed plastic, varnished walnut plywood, 2015

After that, I presented one of my video works in 4x4 at Mint studios. The exhibition went of four weekends, with a different artist or group of artists presenting each weekend. I was one of three artists presenting video works in week one. The video is below.

And that's it for now!

Welcome to my website!

So here's my first blog post, where I'll try to start and remain in the habit of updating the site with any news regarding exhibitions and the like. The first piece of news for 2014 is that I have had some of my graduate work chosen to be a part of the 2014 Helpmann Academy Graduate exhibition.  

"The Helpmann Academy Graduate Exhibition 2014 is the showcase exhibition of South Australia's freshest emerging artists. Thirty-three have been selected from graduates from the Helpmann Academy's visual arts partners. 

6:00pm, Thursday February 13th
Drill Hall, Torrens Parade Ground 
Victoria Drive, Adelaide 

Featuring the work of Lily Ahlefeldt, Richard Austin, Alex Bishop-Thorpe, John Blines,Tom Borgas, Cassie Broad, Emily Clinton, Carolyn Corletto, David Court, Lucas Croall, Angela Giuliani, Jessica Hansen, Angelica Harris-Faull, Amy Herrmann, Cheryl Hutchens, Zoe Kirkwood, Bekki Klix, Kylie Macey, Alice Mahoney, Monika Morgenstern, Maggie Moy, Roger Myles, Sophia Nuske, Paul David Perry, Amy Pfitzner, Courtney Rodgers, Hayley Rowlands, Derek Derek, Julie Strawinski. JessTaylor, Clancy Warner, Ruth Wilson, Rosemary White"

Lots of names, should be an exciting show if you can make it!

Also, from February 7 for around a month, I'll be displaying some of my models in the vitrines in the St Peter's Library. The library is at 101 Payneham Rd, St Peters, and the vitrines (there are 6) are upstairs. If you're in the area, check it out - I've been excited to been given the opportunity to make some stuff after taking a short break after the grad show.  It's all in progress at the moment, and I'll keep you updated, but basically the models explore the way replicas can be used to commemorate events, play out desires, or make physical an intent. Lots of models of me, interacting with each other in bizarre, impossible and occasionally murderous ways. Again, work in progress.

I think that's it for now, I'll leave you with a progress shot of the library works.

-Jess

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