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16 funeral pyre for the friend that he would never forget. Recently I found a large plastic tub of massive nuts and bolts in the corner of his studio apparently all that is left in Red Hook of the large boat. They sit in limbo for now while he determines whether to put them in a dedicated custom-built wooden box which he is reticent to do because of the possible association with another of his heroes H. C. Westermann. Joe mentioned a viable alternative. I have been looking for somewhere to melt them together he said quietly on a recent cold and rainy afternoon but nobody seems to do that kind of thing anymore. When he does find his answer and he will it is safe to say that the net result will be an amused vendor and an abstract mass of fused aspirations that will need another truck with muscle to move the end game for one-hundred hours of planning and lonely work an object that in both fact and fiction will undoubtedly be exponentially heavier than Joes now 190 lbs. of flesh and bones. In 2013 the oppressive weight and frozen gravitas of the previous exhibition became more emotionally delicate almost meditative a response to the fact that time is just another foe to be reckoned with. In observing that time appears wickedly detached from the consequences of its inexorable march forward Zito in his typical fashion found the sculptural language to counter empiricism and offer an alternative universe. In a coy play with the exhibitions title Tempus Fugit time in the artwork did not appear to fly at all but rather was portrayed as having become static like the sand that filled the hour glass forms or in a more radical gesture moving backwards as it did in one of the largest pieces titledInversion. Three cartoon-like planes seemingly as fragile as eggshells each with stunted wings and a vestigial tail slowly rotate in reverse on a metal armature. There was a surreal hypnotic dream- like quality to this inverse rotation. The piece transcended the antiseptic gallery environment and felt as if it were instead a memory captured through the dirty lens of a camera held by a child. It was a memory that was more nostalgic than foreboding more poignant than threatening just another subterranean narrative that evaded precise explanation but alluded to a profound moment in the artists life. The essence of the piece was embodied by a quote by Kierkegaard that Joe found in his literary wanderings Life can only be understood backwards but must be lived forwards. There was another key work in this exhibition that triggered an association with the artist Joel Shapiro. Though diluted in recent years by too many