The Glass House is a transparent, permeable, and morphing fashion house. Constructed between the real and imaginary, the absurd and surreal, it has no set geography. Its solid and protective structure is porous; its foundation is a web without origin.
You may know a glass house— you certainly do. You’ll bring that house to this house, and this house will ask you about that house; it will ask you to reimagine it. Like all experiences in the present, it recasts your memories if you let it. The views change, depending on what you bring to them. The house looks like, the way you look at it.
The Glass House is see-through, always pointing elsewhere. It is built on questions about agency, of hybridized cultures and dreams of possible worlds; of broken genealogies, schizophrenic time, and fractured histories of a stolen glance that meets another’s eyes in recognition; in the mingling of breath, and the exchange of atoms, in the grand collage, where infinite births explode in the space of difference. All of this is arranged as a collage; a collection of ideas, framed through moving windows of garments, objects, or images.
There is nothing original in this house. The sacred and the authentic are at home in the reproduction. There is no singular author here. This house is interested in bodies and identities without edges; in existence as interconnected environments; in deconstructing myths between nature and culture, biology and technology; by the way our bodies shape and are shaped by ever-shifting shared environments; the way context redefines and re-dresses, again and again, what is known; by the way death and disgust line beauty: the carnivalesque.
You can participate in an exchange for objects here, but the house is more interested in other kinds of value systems: the value of dialogue, of creative work that rearranges experience, rewriting where and how value and meaning are created.
The Glass House is held up by thinking about death and the time we have here together: not just being, but being with. It’s held up by remembering that we are floating on a planet in a galaxy of one hundred thousand million stars and counting. The Glass House is nothing— just one shout into an inky velvet sky of a trillion questions that ask what we can make with what we have. It’s never enough, but what magnitudes are found in the process of trying.