So many times I hear people call our art modern. This is a blind alley of common vernacular. Modernism is a wax museum of power, control, and failed utopias—turn off the air and let it melt. The grass is always greener and our memories have outlived us. Memories exist beyond reality; mnemonics scrub memories clean; nostalgia keeps them safe. Sign and signifiers are breadcrumbs to lead us back to an original point of departure. Let us pass through the present, mud flying and back aching. Let the fury of the present make a trembling target of the past.