Mzohore

15/10/2025

Good Morning Professionals!

There’s are some images and bts of my baby Die!, Meerjungfrau, 1922–2025 . Have a great day !

08/09/2025

Dad Ungluck, 1884-2025
See you all Thursday

28/07/2025

01/06/2025

Good morning professionals—happy Pride Month! I hope you’re feeling pretty, witty, and gay as hell today. 🌈💅🏽

Let’s begin with a blessing: Covenant (Arc en Ciel), my sculptural sermon on light, distortion, and divine camp, first installed at the and the Jule. At its center is a neon sign that reads God Made Me To Impress His Friends—but don’t bother looking directly. The message is bent forward, illegible unless mediated by a mirror. Even the truth requires reflection.

The bend in the sign isn’t just formal; it’s a reclamation. It reverses the traditional arc of neon and weaponizes the slur “bent” with intellectual precision. A word once used to pathologize becomes a tool for revelation. You want clarity? You’ll have to confront distortion first.

The piece draws from Neil deGrasse Tyson’s theory of reflection—how light reveals what direct sight obscures. In this installation, visibility is not a given; it’s a process. The viewer must look down into the mirror, into themselves, to read the work. To be seen here is to accept a mediated, refracted, often humiliating route. For many of us, that’s the only path to legibility.

And the phrase itself—God Made Me To Impress His Friends—is not interested in dignity. It’s a swipe at the smug tyranny of “made in His image,” that sanctified clause weaponized to exclude anyone who disrupts the norm. My God has friends. My God is petty. My God lives for the gag.

Thank you to my partner in crime . Stay tuned cuz we've got more heat coming your way🪞⚡️

22/04/2025

Happy Earth Day Professionals! I’m about to walk into class so I’ll write about the works later but here are some bts on some work I made for the Dallas Art Fair in 2023 with about “conservation” that almost got me ran out of the the Line Star State 🤠. Gotta love Dallas tho! More Soon!

09/04/2025

Good morning Professionals—did you miss me?
As I get ready to take off for god knows where, I wanted to introduce you to my favorite girl who also can’t tell whether she’s coming or going.
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Ain’t No Mountain / Keep Me From You, 1635–2024 is a paper towel sculpture caught in the machinery of institutional care. Perched on a motorized stairlift—the kind reserved for bodies deemed inconvenient—she moves not at her command, but at the mercy of a system designed to slow her down. The lift descends before it ascends, transforming mobility into spectacle. What masquerades as support is really choreography.
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Her body—Zohore’s signature material of dyed, bleached, image-transferred paper towels—absorbs history like trauma: unevenly, permanently. She wears The Flying Nun’s habit with operatic disregard. On her chest, Jacob Peter Gowy’s The Fall of Icarus flares like a pre-existing condition. This isn’t myth. This is aftermath. She’s not falling—she’s already filed.
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Her surface becomes an anatomy of collapsed icons: Whitney Houston belts I Will Always Love You from the thigh, karaoke captions clinging like medical codes. Tyra Banks screams from the knee—I was rooting for you!—part performance review, part curse. Cardi B’s welted Met Gala forehead flares across the side. The serpent winds down her arm. Heartburn scorches her spine—not novel, but symptom.
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These aren’t references. They’re conditions.
Every figure—beloved and berated—is both heartbreaker and heartbroken.
They don’t decorate her. They compose her.
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The red medical crosses that bind her limbs aren’t emblems of aid. They’re containment marks.
She’s not healed. She’s handled.
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The title splits itself. Diana Ross sang it like romance. Zohore’s girl rides it like a sentence—because the loop never ends.

27/02/2025

32.

31/12/2024

The Only Reason I’ve Consented to Another Year of This (Finale)

31/12/2024

The Only Reason I’m Consenting To Another Year of This
(Act 2)

31/12/2024

The Only Reason I’m Consenting To Another Year of This
(Act 1)

05/11/2024

Happy Election Day Professionals, and may the odds be ever in our favor.
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Beloved (Baby/Maker) is desperation incarnate—a grubby, defiant, “slutty” child, ready to abase itself in a twisted ritual of self-sacrifice for an audience that won’t look away. Kneeling on a bed of dry rice, it holds itself in a posture of punishment, willing to suffer whatever it takes to be noticed, valued, forgiven. This is no passive suffering; it’s a performance of degradation. Without a parent to impose this punishment, we, the viewers, take on that role, our gaze complicit and invasive.
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Americanism stains every inch of it. From the Daisy Dukes flaunting patriotism to the Basquiat tramp stamp branding it with a rebellion that’s already commodified to death. This child embodies America’s contradictions: the sacred and the trashy, innocence corrupted and innocence commodified. It’s born of systems that push bodies to their breaking points while patting them on the head, saying, “Be strong, be resilient, keep smiling.”
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The tattoo on its head reads “Beloved”—not a term of endearment but a grim brand, nodding to Toni Morrison’s spectral character trapped in trauma. Like her Beloved, this child is haunted—by an insatiable hunger for validation that will never be met. The Kerry James Marshall-inspired mask turns it into an apparition of itself—a Black figure caught in America’s nightmare of hyper-visibility and erasure.
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Diamonds and cowry shells adorn its body, bridging African heritage and shallow consumerism. This baby’s body is a battleground of inherited meaning and forced identity, Americanism etched into its flesh, shaped by a culture demanding it be strong, inspiring, marketable—even to the point of self-destruction.
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