Juicy larvae play amongst feral grasses. Slugs laze on velvety pillows of tufted lichen. Cornucopias of ripened fruits germinate in tendrilled verdant habitats. I can’t help but delight in Piper Bangs’ paintings, resonating with my love of dirt and belief in the magic of compost. Bangs’ microbial theaters of fruiting bodies seem to radiate from within, glowing with an oracular phosphorescence akin to Borealis skies and deep sea critters. Her sensual fruits know no shame. Rapturous beds of fleshy bodies slink and seep into one another, evoking the erotics of rot in which the world is an endless orgy of life and death.