I write this review at this late hour to stave off sleep. I don’t want to sleep, to close my eyes for long periods of time, because such invites dreams of rust, and pigs, and murky scents.

Initial impressions of the Rust Room left much to be desired.

Without reservation, I acknowledge that the technique present in each piece was flawless. The precision involved in configuring the flowers, the careful measurement of skin for the Meat Room, the multifaceted layering of paint and patina for the Rust Room were all expertly executed.

Yet, when time blends with the elements to break down what life has built up, I feel an incredible sense of power and peace from the inescapable reach of entropy; knowing the mechanics of an iron-infused paint and acid wash removed that sense of awe for me. After all, I like a nice patina on metal art as much as the next guy, but the disillusionment of the process eroded the meaning, leaving not so much as a shred of irony.

However, I had a profound change of heart.

It continues to haunt me.

The retrospective on Not A Rose, coupled with the documentary on Ms. Hatry’s Meat Room, framed in rust, I suddenly felt a deep sense of nostalgia and horror. Not repulsion, but a sense of uneasy terror thrumming at the back of my skull; regardless of Ms. Hatry’s intention, she has successfully transported the nightmare realm of Silent Hill into Manhattan!

The image of Ms. Hatry slicing flesh in her white gown, slowly enveloped in velvet blood, was like watching the deranged scientist responsible for the Asylum’s nurse-corpses. The smell of the basement artist-run space had the murk and depth reminiscent of the subway during a midnight storm, and God only knows what eldritch horrors lurk there.

The flickering candle light was evocative of Claudia’s madness, and the wisps of curling paraffin smoke dancing across the projector light echoed the mist of that small town.

I don’t want to sleep right now, and I have Ms. Hatry to thank for it.