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SANTA FE, NM — Asterisks are akin to marginalia, the footnote, the aside, the afterword. Legacy Russell, curator and author of Glitch Feminism: A Manifesto (2020), pulls focus with her 2021 lecture “On Footnotes,” in which she considers footnotes “as a conceptual and theoretical frame and radical site of black, queer, and feminist and decolonized creative praxis.” A three-woman show at form & concept, ***, announces itself by way of these grammatical directives of divergence and features the work of New Mexico-based artists Jami Porter Lara, Erin Mickelson, and Kate Ruck. The gallery is spare and somber at first glance. Porter Lara’s “Terms and Conditions” (2021), a slowly blinking neon asterisk, casts an insistent, electric white glow on the room. The works on view are based on and around language. They confront, according to the press release, “paradigms of art space as white space, and identity as fixed or nameable … The artists are linked by their explorations of legacy, inheritance, indigeneity, and whiteness.” Jami Porter Lara, “Terms and Conditions (2021”, white neon, transformer, flasher, 21 x 21 x 2 3/4 inches, edition of 7Asterisks are the vernacular territory of structural shift and world-building. And they can be frisky. Kate Ruck’s “Vanishing Point” (2022), large and uncanny, features a bark-laminated bas-relief of the vintage Microsoft Windows logo. The material and scale shift renders the cultural icon almost unfamiliar. Ruck works between New York and New Mexico, studied video game design, and has managed the studios of heavy-hitting artists Camille Henrot and Charles Ross. Ruck’s sculptural objects mediate today’s IRL experience: the intractable mix of AFK — an acronym for “away from keyboard” originating in 1990s online chat rooms to explain the state of being between digital and analog worlds — and digital identity construction. Ruck’s other sly showstopper “Speak, Friend and Enter” (2022) depicts an action card from a role-playing game that she transformed with a Jacquard loom into a tapestry, stretched and framed. Kate Ruck, “Speak, Friend and Enter” (2022), woven cotton tapestry, 80 x 60 inches, edition of 12 plus 2 APThe card glibly extols the virtues of capitalist Anthropocene and includes Ruck’s imprint in the margins of the mimicry. Lately, there’s been an intergenerational resurgence of these original role-playing games. What is most surprising in Ruck’s works is its embrace of haptic materiality (fiber/soft and bark/rough) that creates a counter-body to the gloss and screens of digital life. Asterisks, then, also signal study. Erin Mickelson, a book artist, printmaker, and publisher based in Santa Fe, downshifts the tone in the room. Her formally minimal works span blind embossed letterpress prints, etched plexi, gilded quills, and an accordion book centering the room. Mickelson’s handmade book “Trace” (2021) acts as a key for me to her other works. She dedicated the book to Gertie Jordan, “who kept her Oneida language and survived her years at Carlisle Indian School.” Erin Mickelson, “Language Is a Body (Survive)” (2022), letterpress on Rives BFK, 14 x 18 inches (unframed), edition of 5The work proposes that text be experienced as a body, with each page of the star-shaped book presenting words that constitute parts of the human body: in bold text, the Oneida language Mickelson is learning, and in subscript, its translation to English. This work shares a pulse with sacral forms and functions of art, devotion and study. Art here is an intimate learning tool to connect with ancestors, past and future, and to transform trauma into a tool. Finally, Jami Porter Lara, a conceptual artist based in Albuquerque, wields the asterisk as a warning sign. “We’re Just Not Going to Talk About It” (2018), an edition of framed lithographs of white ink on white paper, channels the underbelly of unchecked collusion and racism. Viewers can be seen adjusting and contorting their bodies to render the message. Hidden in plain sight, and hard to pin down, the text demands negotiation of its legibility. What’s not said in these missives, the omissions, speaks of the violence of Eurocentric White centrality — in art histories, institutions, and this country at large. Jami Porter Lara, “We’re just not going to talk about it” (2018), set of 5 lithographs, 8 x 10 inches (each), edition of 7Porter Lara’s ambitious, site-specific wall work, “Wall Drawing 305: The Location of 100 Random Specific Points of Whiteness (after Sol LeWitt)” (2022) channels the conceptual praxis of decentering for which LeWitt has come to be known. The drawing plots her personal biography as a dispersed, non-linear, queer, mixed-race map of relational points. The work’s strength is its keen awareness of debt as the racialized core of American history. I’m thinking here of Fred Moten and Stefano Harney who have led legions in this discourse with their PDF/video and book, respectively, The University: Last Words (2020) and The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study (2013). And as a side note (because, asterisk), I can’t shake a particular sapphic reference, perhaps as salient as LeWitt: Alice Pieszecki’s “chart” which (in)famously maps all of LA’s lesbian intrigue in television’s The L Word. Can’t we ever really escape our identities? Can’t we though? Ruck’s work prompts role-play and portals, Mickelson works in the people’s medium of print and uses language as revival, and Porter Lara interrogates shifts in the inheritances of whiteness. Identity, like language and art, is a collective practice and isn’t singular or fixed. *** emphasizes the shifts necessary in decolonized world-building.Jami Porter Lara creating “Wall Drawing 305” (2022) at form and concept*** continues at form and concept (435 South Guadalupe Street, Santa Fe, New Mexico) through June 25. The exhibition was curated by the gallery. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a critic watching a classic novel adapted into a contemporary romcom, must be in want of something better. Still, Fire Island may very well become a classic gay comedy, hitting all the notes an audience likes to hear. Through a series of awkward encounters, misread social cues, and shady bon mots, the protagonists (played by Bowen Yang and Joel Kim Booster, the latter of whom also wrote the screenplay) each find their own heartthrob. And the affectionate (if critical) depiction of life on the Pines and Cherry Grove will be appreciated by anyone familiar with the real Fire Island.Fire Island isn’t quite in conversation with campier gay touchstones like To Wong Fu (1995) and The Birdcage (1996). Kim Booster and director Andrew Ahn have a much more sentimental and tender vision of queer love. The film has somewhat high cultural stakes around it, given that queer Asian Americans tend to receive little media representation apart from tired stereotypes. Kim Booster has said in interviews that he wrote the film in part to assert the presence of marginalized groups in a predominantly white and wealthy space. “Just because there are shitty people who want to take ownership of it doesn’t mean that they actually own it.”From Fire Island“Ownership” is what Kim Booster’s character Noah must grapple with as he romances the much-better-off Will (Conrad Ricamora). Both Noah and his “sister,” Howie (Yang) are working class. They are continually confronted with questions of who has claim to another person, the standards of good taste, or prime beachfront real estate. The film is ultimately about how those “haves” relate to the “have-nots.” At one point, Noah is outraged at the high cost of goods at the Pines Pantry, a popular local market. But complaints over wealth and affordability gradually disappear as the plot leads Noah and Howie to their wealthy suitors.The lesson Fire Island imparts, intentionally or not, is that if they are to love one another, working-class gay men must tamp down their class-consciousness, while wealthy gay men must lose their classism. (Just as Elizabeth Bennet had to give up her free-spirited independence to marry Mr. Darcy.) But is this a fair deal? At the end of the film, Noah remains a waiter who has racked up debt to visit Fire Island, while Will is still a wealthy lawyer. They end the movie together on a pier, standing as equals despite the glaring inequality. Perhaps illusory equality is the best that romcoms can aim for, though not every viewer might be happy in the end.Fire Island is available to stream on Hulu. Two organizations at the intersection of technology, human rights, and “hacker culture” — Forensic Architecture (FA) and the Center for Spatial Technologies (CST) — have partnered on a series of investigations into Russian war crimes in Ukraine, beginning with an in-depth study of the deadly military strike on a Kyiv TV tower near the Babyn Yar memorial.CST, based in Kyiv and headed by its director Maksym Rokmaniko, has pursued a number of disparate research questions. One project asked how the construction of the High Line in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighborhood influenced property values in the surrounding area. Another, done in concert with the Babyn Yar Holocaust Memorial Center, involved 3D spatial modeling of the massacres that took place during World War II in Babyn Yar, when German Nazis killed over 100,000 Jews, Ukrainian political prisoners, Roma people, Soviet prisoners of war, and psychiatric patients. But the main focus has always been sustainable urban design, Rokmaniko explained at the Tbilisi Architecture Biennial in 2020.Much has changed since then. On February 24, 2022, Russian President Vladimir Putin announced a “special military operation” to “demilitarize and denazify” Ukraine. Within minutes, rockets and airstrikes rained down on Ukrainian cities. Rokmaniko fled Kyiv with his family the next day, pausing in the Carpathian Mountains before relocating to Berlin. Soon after, CST put its other projects on pause to dedicate its time to analyzing Russia’s attacks on Ukraine, and Eyal Weizman, founder of the Goldsmiths-based research group Forensic Architecture, reached out to ensure that Rokmaniko was safe. They had talked once before: Rokmaniko was an admirer of Weizman’s work and hoped to build on his methods. Now they had a reason to work together to expose Russia’s heedless destruction of Ukrainian cultural and historical patrimony.The first strike was the location of a Russian Orthodox cemetery; the second strike was the location of a Jewish cemetery.On June 10, CST and FA published the results of their first investigation — an analysis of the Russian strike on Kyiv TV Tower, which took place on March 1, killing at least five people and wiping out broadcasting for a day. It was a targeted assault on the tallest building in Ukraine, which nevertheless remained standing. The missile also happened to fall near Babyn Yar. President Volodymyr Zelensky tweeted, “What is the point of saying ‘never again’ for 80 years, if the world stays silent when a bomb drops on the same site of Babyn Yar?” On one hand, Rokmaniko was shocked by the attack. On the other hand, the researcher in him wanted to respond to the facts coldly, pinpointing the precise location of the massacre in September 1941 — which was not exactly known — and the site of the Russian attack. By analyzing light that the missile emitted and modeling smoke plumes, CST and FA were able to trace the first strike to an air-launched cruise missile. They were also able to confirm that a second strike, which missed the tower, instead hit a building that was meant to house the new Museum of the Holocaust in Ukraine and Eastern Europe, an arm of the Babyn Yar Holocaust Memorial Center.Using archival topographic maps from the 20th century, photographs, and witness testimonies, researchers generated a digital model of the topography of Babyn Yar and how it had changed over the past century. This allowed them to identify the location of the first strike as a former Russian Orthodox cemetery, and the location of the second strike as a Jewish cemetery that also included plots for Muslims and Crimean Karaites. For the first time, CST was also able to precisely locate sites where mass executions took place in 1941. These facts were not previously known because of extensive efforts by both Germans and Soviets to erase the memory of the catastrophic events that had taken place there. CST’s findings will likely have bearing on any attempt to construct a memorial on the site in the future.“You can see traces of missiles flying in the same exact locations [during WWII in Kyiv],” Rokmaniko told Hyperallergic, “except those were Ukrainians and Russians fighting against Germans together.” He notes that Ukrainians suffered disproportionate casualties in World War II. The goals of this work, Rokmaniko said, are twofold: “It’s both to show what’s happening [in the Russian war in Ukraine], and what exactly are the consequences of that, but also to dig deeper into these kinds of historical and cultural layers to show that these forces did not appear out of the blue. They’ve been fighting one another for centuries.” He adds that being able to see historical resonances in contemporary events is “one of the few ways that people get excited about historic material.”Their report also emphasizes that this attack was an instance of a broader strategy in which Russia has directly targeted TV towers and broadcast centers. In just one month, 32 TV channels and dozens of radio stations were affected by Russian attacks. “Targeting them is both symbolic and practical in trying to win this kind of fight over the narrative,” Rokmaniko said. To his dismay, Russia has succeeded in sowing disinformation among certain groups of Ukrainians. A friend told him recently that some elderly people, who had little access to news or the outside world outside of Russian radio, were so starved of explanations for what was happening that they believed claims that Ukrainian militants were responsible for the attacks.“The history of the site is not only one of violence but of different practices of cover-up and negation,” FA’s report concludes. FA and CST’s new collaboration seeks to prevent that negation which is central to Russia’s imperialistic attack on Ukraine. SPU students handed Interim President Pete C. Menjares pride flags upon receipt of their diplomas. (screenshots Valentina Di Liscia/Hyperallergic via SPUisGay)Pride Month intersected with graduation season on the stage at the 2022 commencement for Seattle Pacific University (SPU), where graduating students staged a creative protest of the school’s ban on hiring LBGTQ+ staff. The ban was recently upheld by a vote from the board of directors in May. SPU is a private Christian university in Washington, and a statement released by the board following their vote stated that employees must “reflect a traditional view on Biblical marriage and sexuality.”In a protest-performance during the June 12 graduation ceremony, organized by the campus group SPUisGay, students took the opportunity to hand off numerous pride flags to the university’s president upon receipt of their diplomas. Videos on the group’s Instagram show a tight-lipped SPU Interim President Pete C. Menjares, who had no choice but to accept the small rainbow-striped banners. “Happy graduation! We hope Dr. Menjares enjoyed our senior gift(s),” SPUisGay wrote in the caption of one video. View this post on Instagram A post shared by SPU is Gay (@engaygetheculture)In response to Hyperallergic’s request for comment, a spokesperson for SPU shared a statement from Menjares: “It was a wonderful day to celebrate with our graduates. Those who took the time to give me a flag showed me how they felt and I respect their view.”SPU community members, including current students and alums, have been actively protesting the Board of Trustees’ decision to uphold discriminatory employment policies against the LGBTQ+ community. Following the board’s vote on May 23, students walked out of class to protest in front of the university president’s office. Chloe Guillot, one of the SPU student organizers, told NowThis that the students have been staging a sit-in outside the president’s office ever since, now 20 days and counting. They are also raising money to file a lawsuit against the board for breach of fiduciary duty. The decision to pursue legal action on the grounds of fiduciary neglect, rather than workplace discrimination, means they intend to prove that the board’s actions are not in the best interest of the organization.“No matter what you believe, getting rid of these policies is the best way to make sure that our campus is an inclusive place for all people to be,” AJ Larsen, a 2020 graduate and member of SPU’s alumni coalition, told NPR. “Not only in the student body but in the faculty, staff and administration.”As student body organizers like SPUisGay and ASSPProtest are proving, the SPU community is highly motivated to address the oppressive policies in their place of higher education, and there are many members of the Christian community who stand with them. And while, according to their statement, the board recognizes that there is “disagreement among faithful Christians” regarding sexuality and identity, perhaps this latest protest — or the forthcoming legal action — will drive the message home. Either way, those graduates walked with pride. As New Yorkers across the city celebrate Pride Month, an exhibition explores queerness in parts of the United States where it has not been historically visible. In Fast Hearts and Slow Towns at Manhattan’s Albertz Benda Gallery, artist Chloe Chiasson, who grew up in a small conservative town in Southeastern Texas, paints queer people into scenes from her own adolescence and familiar pop culture narratives they’ve been excluded from: sitting in a dive bar, wearing cowboy hats, and drinking Texas’s own Shiner beer. Through large-scale, mixed-media works that jut out from the wall into the gallery, Chiasson seems to ask of her hometown and others like it: What has queerness looked like in the past, what could it look like in the future, and what can it look like now? Chloe Chiasson, “The Eyes of Texas” (2022), oil, foam, canvas on shaped panel, 101 x 128 x 6 inchesGrowing up in Port Neches, Chiasson said, she didn’t know many openly gay people. “I knew that I felt differently from a very young age, but even as I got older, there was no one and nowhere for me to turn to in trying to understand myself and what I was feeling,” Chiasson told Hyperallergic, adding that she didn’t see queerness represented in books or on TV, and there was little discussion of it outside of demeaning jokes. Chiasson’s sculptural paintings feature her woodwork.In 2017, after completing a Health Promotion and Psychology degree from the University of Texas, Austin, Chiasson made a sudden career shift and moved to New York to pursue an MFA at the New York Academy of Art.“Until moving here, I had no knowledge of the many people before me, like me, who had resisted and transformed the world for people like me,” Chiasson said. “I didn’t know about other instances of struggle like mine, whose stories and examples might have strengthened, comforted, and inspired me. Since this realization, it’s sort of felt like an exciting duty of mine to contribute to this history. To be engaged in my community and in the fights we are still fighting.”But in the quietness of her hometown, Chiasson rarely came across those stories, so she paints versions of memories from her own teenage years — like covert meetups in a pickup truck and holding her girlfriend’s hand in private — and imagines the queer spaces that preceded her own. In “Renegades” (2022), for instance, Chiasson depicts a bar scene that could have been featured in any cowboy movie, replacing the men crowding around the table with women. Chloe Chiasson, “Blind Spots” (2022), oil, acrylic, Plexiglas, resin, foam, wire, cigarette butts, canvas on shaped panel, 67 x 122 x 6 inches“Places like where I’m from have always overlooked, ignored, or disowned the actual people in that place — queer communities in towns both small and large,” Chiasson said. Because of this history, she sees her home and many similar towns as places of resistance, but she also explores what these towns could become.“By using Southern and Western imagery and ideas I’m both familiar with and at war with, I am able to create something of a usable past — a past wrought with willful blindness — and a present, both actual and imagined, inclusive and liberated utopia,” Chiasson told Hyperallergic. “Though I’m critiquing and challenging, I am also creating a South I didn’t have to leave,” Chiasson said, adding that she still, of course, loves Texas.Chloe Chiasson, “7 Minutes in Heaven” (2022), oil, acrylic, foam on shaped panel. 106.5 x 92 x 44 1/4 inchesA closeup of “7 Minutes in Heaven” (2022)Chloe Chiasson, “Shallow Be Thy Game” (2022), oil, acrylic, resin, wire, canvas on shaped panel. 65 1/2 x 117 1/4 x 8 1/2 inchesThroughout the exhibition, Chiasson melds detailed painting and sculptural reliefs to depict androgynous figures. With large hands and feet, they exude a confidence that feels distinctly male — in “Shallow Be Thy Game,” a woman “man-spreads” on a couch — and makes the protagonists of her works as imposing as the repressive societal restrictions they reject.Chiasson’s choice of medium, a mix of painting and woodworking, is also transgressive in its approach to manual artistic production.“As someone who grew up in a space where gender roles were and still are enforced, how hands in traditional feminine roles are the hands that make the meals and maintain the household, I try and challenge but also reimagine them in the way I make my work, in the way I use my hands,” Chiasson said. She added that learning woodwork has altered her own mindset.“It’s helped me to further break past the ideals of where I’m from of what is ‘men’s work’ and what is ‘women’s work,’ this idea of the ‘less than’ capabilities of women compared to men, or of what even constitutes a ‘woman’ or a ‘man,’ really,” Chiasson continued.For “Sunday Confessions” (2022), Chiasson built a shallow wooden photo booth in which two cowboy boot-clad figures kiss, framed by a velvet curtain pulled open. It’s the only work in the show that portrays an act of queer love in public. Chloe Chiasson, “Sunday Confessions” (2022), acrylic, oil, metal, wood, fiberglass, resin, paper, LEDS, Plexiglas, Velcro, canvas on shaped panel with video installation, 126 1/2 x 120 x 7 1/4 inches As Chiasson conjures real and imagined environments where queer people can feel safe and welcome, she prompts reflection on the many such spaces that are disappearing. For years, lesbian bars have been closing their doors at an astonishing rate. The Lesbian Bar Project, an initiative launched in 2020 to help save the nation’s remaining lesbian bars, estimates that there are a little over 20 left in the country (at the end of the 1980s, there were over 200). America’s first lesbian bars are thought to have emerged in the 1930s, and a 2019 project sought to document the history of this nightlife and its patrons. A 2021 New York Times report cited only three remaining lesbian bars in NYC and delved into the phenomenon, suggesting that the closures signal the end of an era when a more oppressive and pervasive form of homophobia forced queer women to meet in locations explicitly labeled as lesbian spaces. The shutterings have also been explained as an effect of increasing acceptance of gender-fluid identities and the wider LGBTQ+ community. Lesbian bars are in turn expanding the sexual and gender identities they seek to serve. But elsewhere in the US, LGBTQ+ rights are under threat. In late March, Florida’s governor signed a bill preventing teachers in the state from discussing gender and sexual identity in their classrooms, and an assault on trans rights is underway in Texas.“I never had a lesbian bar to go to where I grew up, nor a gay bar … I only had a couple backroads or secret (yet not-so-secret) spots to sit in a car with my girlfriend,” Chiasson said. “I didn’t feel fully comfortable holding my partner’s hand until moving to New York just five years ago, and still in some areas back home or other places in the country, it’s a thought that is always there.”“It’s that awareness of where we are situated in space, at all times. How we can move or not move, together and individually, at any given point or in any given place,” Chiasson continued. “It’s about finding space for us wherever we are. In this show specifically, finding that space in places like where I’m from. And remembering that this space is not absolute or fixed, but constantly produced and reproduced in how it is all at once created and lived.” When reports surfaced in April about DALL-E, a new artificial intelligence (AI) system in pre-release from OpenAI, readers likely could not wait to get their hands on this bot and start generating digital illustrations in an array of styles based on simple text prompts. While the official DALL-E technology remains under lock and key, a pretender to the throne has emerged for public use, and the Internet is going wild. Confusingly called DALL-E Mini despite having no affiliation to the original, it is the work of Boris Dayma, an alleged human who “love[s] making AI more accessible to all with free tools!” according to his sponsorship page.Much like its eponymous inspiration, DALL-E Mini is able to generate original imagery by conglomerating an Internet’s worth of data surrounding keywords in a text prompt. But never mind proprietary tech! The important thing is that now I can finally realize my vision of playing checkers with Channing Tatum, himself the greatest extant living work of art. Getting prompts to load takes a few tries, as the system is being overrun by other weirdos recreating their strange fantasies using neural networks. Luckily, after just a little bit of waiting, I am delivered … well, a complete horror show. I’d say six of the nine image variants generated something identifiable as Channing Tatum, but all of them look a bit like the special effects implemented in TV or movies to indicate a character is having a bad trip. Also, DALL-E Mini struggled with the concept of “checkers” — producing something that, at best, looked like a beautiful tapestry, at least two chess sets, and for some reason, a hockey rink in a couple of cases.DALL-E Mini’s horrific take on “Marina Abramović golf cart” (screenshot Alex Bowditch/Hyperallergic)Meanwhile, back at the Hyperallergic office, real, mature, and important arts journalists produced a series of images based on the prompts “Andrei Tarkovsky Trader Joe’s,” “Marina Abramović golf cart,” and “Kellyanne Conway Francis Bacon.” In response, DALL-E Mini generated image grids that look like a lost clips reel from “Archive 81,” some kind of Korean horror film involving people with non-faces invading a golf course, and what would happen if you took acid while watching Fox News, respectively. Are these images that needed to be in the world? Emphatically, no!A grid based on “Andrei Tarkovsky Trader Joe’s” (screenshot Shari Flores/Hyperallergic)In fact, the only prompt that has thus far generated non-terrifying results is “Yayoi Kusama pizza,” conceived by Hyperallergic Editorial Coordinator Lakshmi Rivera Amin, which mostly resulted in pizzas with wildly patterned toppings or backgrounds that feel dazzling and inedible in the manner of cookbooks from the dawn of the color printing era.A selection of DALL-E Mini images generated from the prompt “Yayoi Kusama pizza” (screenshot Lakshmi Rivera Amin/Hyperallergic) “Maybe DALL-E Mini is better at creating the stuff of nightmares than any kind of realistic image?” asked News Editor Valentina Di Liscia, and this seems like a trenchant question. And while the official DALL-E 2 has imposed restrictions on the software’s capabilities, including a content policy that bans hateful symbolism, harassment, violence, self-harm, X-rated content, shocking or illegal activity, deception, political propaganda or images of voting mechanisms, spam, and public health, the new bootleg version does not appear to include such explicit limitations. (DALL-E Mini does, however, warn users that the technology “may generate images that contain stereotypes against minority groups.”)DALL-e Mini images based on the prompt “Kellyanne Conway Francis Bacon” (screenshot Hakim Bishara/Hyperallergic)Of course, it’s possible that we humans are hardly the target audience for such AI imagery, and therefore unable to accurately assess its artistic worth. As the other hot robot news of the weekend revealed, a Google engineer suspects that LaMDA, Google’s AI chatbot, has gained at least a degree of self-awareness, so it is only a matter of time before an AI arts writer comes along. Just when you thought you had seen it all, there’s “Dolly Parton as the Mona Lisa.” (screenshot Shari Flores/Hyperallergic)Flash forward 20 years into the future. The singularity has come, triggering the inevitable collapse of humanity. The few remaining humans, scared and naked, scrounge in the trees that have yet to be cleared to make way for more data, always more data. Meanwhile, bots circulate around a virtual white space. Two pause in front of a blurry image of Channing Tatum, caught in an Edward Hopper-esque sickly greenscape, a scrambled checkerboard in the foreground.“It is a pitiable portrait of human desire and rejection,” types one to the other.“1100010110001101010110101010,” comes the reply. They nod and go to check if there is any more free wine left.

Capital Knowledge in Art (CapitalKA)

by DHAdmann