|FILTH + FEATHER, BONES ||AT||| SEA |

Visually inhaling these inky, tar-washed portraits of Frances Bean Cobain, rolled tightly with photos of her father, Kurt's, memorabilia: Christian relics, prized totems, hilarious gewgaw, is like taking a long, deep drag off of the cigarette that coyly pacifies her sultry, reminiscently-iconic lips. Lips that secure the cylindric butt end dampened by saliva containing a DNA cocktail of two of Rock's most notoriously intoxicating//intoxicated connubial characters: Courtney and Kurt. Addicted lips that blow the same brand of kiss and that her mother, Courtney, used to use (pre-botox) to spew lyrics that fueled and decorated her wild and turbulent career. That, too, almost romanticized addiction. Pillows of flesh that capture your stare before releasing you upwards towards beautiful, annular, cobalt marbles that some of us were introduced to when they first were presented to us behind straggly strands of blonde hair that decorated a now iconic man in the early nineties. Childlike eyes that seem to speak volumes - both now and then. Longing for something- naked or smeared in kohl. While the emulsion on these is practically still wet, the images seem familiar. As if someone found an ash-dusted shoebox of photographs under a pile of plaid shirts, baby doll dresses and guitars. The revealing of her (seemingly) newly baptized-by-womanhood face, that you can almost be certain gives life to a sonorous sound, over and under perpetual pursing, seems to be chapter one in another coming-of-age tale. One that has conjured many characters, including a Fiddle Tim, that live inside of her and breathe life through fluid and fiber, arts and crafts created from those tattooed hands that -due to straight genetics alone- must hold and bleed talent. That genetically superior face staring through you behind a billowy vail of biological ghosts. The framing few inches of bleach-white paper burn sensuously against the swirling of sewn-up and chemical ebony, ivory celebrity skin and pretty doll parts.

From the origin of these photos, to what the google gods will bless you with, Frances Bean does not appear to be choking on the ashes of enemies-- results of the after-math of her parent's numerous battles. At least not on the outside. But we all know scars run deep. The scrolls of wisdom etched fathomless on outstretched arms, stained like coal, if nothing else speak of someone who has experienced life far beyond her years.