The Milk Fountain cannot be dissected in morsels of consumption. First cradled within the basin was fresh milk: refreshing, drinkable, and nurturing. By now the milk has separate into curd and whey. Soon it will calcify, crystallize, and the sour putrid scent of this action will pass. Under the mask of Baroque excess, imbedded within the forms of their decadence lingers, within the beauty, an odor; powdered, caked white, how regal did these courtesans stand? Their flesh persisting through the permeable insulation of perfumed sweetness. Within this architecture perpetrates this ghost of entropy. The flesh. The body. Europa.

The Milk Fountain is the unity of technology. A top the brain exposed under the enlightened trademark: the glass dome. The rocket engine modeled within it, crafted from golden paper, residue wires, generic foam, aluminum tubes – “astronauts report it feels good.” It’s the world of pocket protectors, buzz cuts, bow ties – garages divided and subdivided with miniature shelves to create miniature models, remote control planes, and ham radios in a region of suburbia for the hobby enthusiast; retired engineers, retired veterans. Small blasts of the engine groom the incidence of reentry through the sensible atmosphere. The heroic return of the male bodies inside the capsule pierce the atmosphere and return with lunar records, its magic. The capsule is cardboard. Model making is an approximation.

The Milk Fountain has nipples. The portion modeled after the “reentry capsule,” i.e. the Apollo Mission’s Command Module scale replica, has been homogenized with a decorative tactility, in unity by tiled excess, employing an exoskeleton the like of the interiority of Russian baths. In addition, they are nipular fissures on the underbelly of the capsule that connect to mammary glands within the tiled walls: sixteen in total. These nipples on the underside of the Command Module drip milk, drip whey, and drip until heat seize the engine, then drip again when the engine is cooled. The tiles are for display, protection, Las Vegas. On them the milk ossifies.

The Milk Fountain is plugged-in. Seven submerged, breast-shaped lights illuminate the milk for maximum retinal stimulation. A cool fluorescent glow. Below the dress, a Commodore 64-like antiquated computer monitor features the internal drips of one of the bladders – a clear bottle with a live surveillance feed. The internal processes of the container, the capsule, are for us to view. Feathers guard the erogenous zone; according to Freud, in his analysis of Leonardo da Vinci, Egyptian tale has it that vultures would open their vaginas in mid-flight to conceive immaculately with the wind - an invisible conception.

The Milk Fountain’s general profile is based on the mushroom-cloud of an atomic explosion. Only that the form is placed upside down to conceal this image. The instant of detonation fractures with every second past; for a flash, unbearably white a half-sphere swells to the shape of a breast. In slow motion, we spectacle: rearranged matter, and deciphered crumbling; the light recedes, succumbing to smoke. The male body has transfixed the image of their desire in another icon, down the path of the Bachelor Machine. It is a Milk Fountain.