"Shitstorm" by J, charcoal on small notebook paper

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore. And may I further say, my canine friend, I do believe we’ve slipped the surly bonds. J’s otherworldly debut is the brave work of a burning young soul; borrowing on traditional Americana (the little house carried away by the twister in Wizard of Oz) to make a much larger point on the chaotic state of affairs in modern America – a frenzied place that would surely bunch Auntie M’s considerable housedress. Just as Sinclair Lewis used his small town upbringing to tear apart such places in his scathing depictions, J trades on his unique makeup as both the son of an artist and meteorological zealot to take us swiftly to the eye of the storm. The little home can only hope to be swept up and carried to a better place these days. Instead, J, intones, we’re forced to ride it out in this man-made mess. There is no man behind the curtain. There is no Oz. There is only the shitstorm, Toto.