“I pour myself a very little drink, watching, in the windowpane, my reflection, which steadily becomes more faint. I seem to be fading away before my very eyes- this fancy amuses me, and I laugh to myself” - James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room David Bush has a fascination with reflective surfaces. When we distill and flatten our looking through a screen or a pane of glass, we see two spaces dissolve and merge into one another, joining while remaining quite distinct. We simultaneously look out towards the fuzzy distance and look back towards ourselves, like Baldwin’s anonymous narrator in Giovanni’s Room. Windows invite reverie, particularly looking out over a quiet country night. That pane of glass becomes a looking glass. Inside and outside crushed and merged and flattened together, looking becomes unfocused, malleable and dreamlike. Only In Bush’s photographs, stark white bellies, like constellations, are scattered across the darkness of the night. Bugs are caught here, tiny burning galaxies describing a naked flat plane, invisible to us. These tiny little creatures, riding the membrane between reflection and transparency, are all that let us know a barrier even exists. Much like an astronomer at a space telescope, Bush adds to the depth and detail of his images through a similar layering of information. He seeks to amplify the effect of these tiny bodies, motes of dust, and scratches of spiders silk. Tracing deep space, shallow space, piling up tiny amounts of light and color, letting the image resolve itself through painstaking accumulation. A universe in miniature.