Santa Fe

Wes Mills

Laura Carpenter Fine Art

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 zone—around that first trauma, when the Nom du Père interposed itself between us and mother, and told us we couldn’t be the phallus for mommy. The drive is an in-and-out motion—it finds its object, but there is always something missing, an empty place in the center. Which leaves us with repetition,

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