“The next instant, do I make it?” asked Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector in her 1973 novel, Água Viva. “Or does it make itself?” Her rumination might well be a recurrent thought within Thea Djordjadze’s practice; the artist’s works seem to appear by some improbable marriage of haphazardry and divination. Take, for example, Untitled, 2012, in which a wall-mounted wooden box is clad in a sheath of IKEA-grade white faux fur, puckered by industrial staples. The fit is just short of perfect, such that a seductive cleavage runs down the box’s torso. Or She didn’t have friends, children, sex, religion,