What does desire, incessant, unclear and unanswerable, look like? This, as much as anything else, is what Wes Mills’ work is all about: it’s a kind of cartography of desire. According to a Lacanian diagram, the drive sweeps in past the margins of an erogenous zone, and then back out again; the drawing looks, variously, like a nipple, a pacifier, a vagina, a phallus, a mound. Desire is the empty place, the hollow in the middle of all these things—desire is the thing that never gets (ful)filled. We never get what we really want, so we always go back for more, circling endlessly around the trauma