Looking at Darya Diamond’s limp latex sculpture, In Every Dream Home a Heartache (2024), I think of bruised skin, frail shoulders: a tired body collapsed on the floor — phallic, deflated, stamped with marks like a trampled body bag. Throughout “Sugartown,” intimacy battles urgency, particularly in the fevered silkscreen prints on bedsheets. These prints evoke the violence of desire; imprints from bodies and the filth left on the bed like scars. A surge of savage images — teeth, thighs, Virgin Marys — serve as feral, disobedient relics pressed onto a lover’s skin, only to fade in morning light or to be discarded. Diamond’s work lingers like the shadow of a worn body.