Chevon and I crossed paths with the artist between gallery entrances on 27th Street. When we congratulated her, she touched her fingertips to her chin and pulled them away with a humble smile. Having used so many words, selected so many fragments, and told so many stories in her exhibition, her choice to say “thank you” by signing it with her body was made louder by its silence. 

There are two spaces at Kasmin Gallery that feature vanessa german’s work (the artist’s name is intentionally stylized using lowercase letters) and neither of them were quiet. On 28th Street, a bluetooth speaker sits on the window ledge of a small white room pumping out the sounds of a ballroom competition. The MC purrs on the mic as the cymbals crash, it’s the moment to fall — one leg bent behind the other, head arcing towards the ground in a backward collapse — into a death drop. Eight queens, adorned with necklaces and chains and tea cups are frozen in their own version of the iconic vogueing pose. At the front of the runway is a sculpture that’s mostly whites and blues save a small mammy figurine hiding a white face beneath her skirt. Her smiling brown face seems content. She’s on top. She’s the figurehead. Closer examination reveals a Black- or brown-somebody on top of every sculpture. One is crowned by a palm-sized African mask.

The sculptures drip with dizzying details. How many pieces…? How long…? How did she attach…? What is that part…? Did you see the bases…? The titles offer more fodder for questions. All but one of the titles has two parts separated by ‘or’. A gilded sculpture with one leg extended is entitled: Grief Monster Realness/trying to keep up, or, ACIM Lesson 25: I do not know what anything is for. The part after the ‘or’ references A Course In Miracles, a year’s worth of exercises for shifting perspective. There are 365 ACIM lessons, none of german’s titles reference any lessons past #31. (It’s no major transgression to work through the lessons at a pace slower than one per day, though I wonder how far ms. german has gone. Personally, I’ve only made it through Marianne Williamson’s companion text A Return to Love and am in no place to judge.) 

The titular reference to Lesson 3 — I do not understand anything I see in this room, (on this street, through this window, in this place) — feels apt. Nothing is explained how I would describe it. In the media list, the mammy figurine is included as “She is a fat black woman taking matters into her own hands.” Soft black stripes from an aerosol spray can are described as, “She is giving concrete stakes, balance, spray paint as nod to Jean-Michel and the tenants of creative freedom.” For everything I think I “get” standing in front of the ever-falling figures, there is so much more to know. 

In the gallery on 28th Street, there are too many people buzzing about to hear any soundtrack and where the previous room had figures and bodies, this space is cranial. It’s just heads. Blue heads and pink heads with bantu knots and heads with bows and heads blowing bubbles and heads with four legs and black heads with light bulbs, like ideas have sparked. Here, the details that are difficult to appreciate on the dancing figures have been blown up and zoomed in. Sure, they are just heads, but the heads are as tall as your mother. Their eyes are as wide as your tummy, their lips are as thick as your thighs. They’re covered in hundreds (thousands? tens of thousands?) of beads and gems and semi-precious stones. Imagine if your woo woo crystal bestie had unlimited time and resources. It’s impossible not to move in circles around each structure like you’re marching on Jericho. It’s impossible not to lean in and find a detail to point out to an old friend. Chevon found the date 3-6-2025 on the monumental scribble (this is the day the artist began the work). I found a lady sambo screaming (or swallowing) gold chains from the eye of the siddhi of the soul; I wanted to free her. 

The gallery write-up explains, “german conceives these sculptures as cosmic maps, proposing a cartography for a sacred place that embraces the full creative potential of all people”. In that way, responding to the call of certain details, shapes, colors, or figures feels like an act of divination. The head that speaks to you will draw you in. Should I worry that I can’t stop staring at the coal-skinned woman lodged in the eye? What place does she mark on the cosmic map?

If you can agree that you do not understand anything you see in the room (Lesson 3), then you’re free to note every detail without drawing grand conclusions, to count every stone without recording the total, to wonder how heavy and not go find out, to spot every evil eye and ahimsa, to erase the margin between being and seeing. In the title of the exhibition, the author offers her own wisdom (and in doing so, sounds very much like ACIM Lesson #366): there is absolutely no space between body and soul. When you create in the “infinite human technology” of love — like german has — you speak with both. 

“GUMBALL—there is absolutely no space between body and soul” by vanessa german is on view at Kasmin Gallery (509 W 27th St and 514 W 28th St) until May 10, 2025. Entry to both galleries is free. I attended the opening reception on Thursday, April 3rd.