The interior of Red Head Gallery for REMAINS reminds me of the soft launch of a construction site. But at the same time, it’s a typical gallery space. Clean white walls and warm wood floors. Artwork spaced out evenly, unobtrusively. Safe. It lets you come to it. There’s a drill lying on its side filled up with sand. Forcing out the sand. Not really forcing out the sand when you look a bit closer. The end of the drill spins around on a same-sized pile. The faint buzzing of the motor makes my ear ring. I’ve got my headphones on and I’m grateful that it protects my other ear. Three metal-looking beams lean against the wall. They’re catch-basins, so I’m told. There’s a jar of clear leaf liquid (that’s actually called hydrosol) and two containers of face cream decaying and laced with piss, propped up on plinths jutting from the wall. It’s about queer intimacy, so I’m told. The works are sticky and highly contextual. Remnants of something else repurposed for the activity of viewing art. Paradoxically, the gallery becomes a site of unintentional(?) transformation. The remnants never stay remnants. Across another wall stretches scores of long, elastic, wonderful rubber bands. They’re nailed there to the wall, reaching across time and space, wrapping around each nail, a final point. I love that it’s called “Left to a next of kin.” It’s like an heirloom. Perfect, sweet, and playful. The computers in the center of the room remind me of a Nam June Paik installation– the electric currents time traveling to meet me in the here and now. I missed the arch on the wall when I walked in. I thought it was this gallery, oddly shaped but a gallery nonetheless.