Following 2019’s (Angel, Soldier), Drew Holland’s show Nadir (even if i break in two) moves away from the solipsism of loss to instead evoke the feelings of joy, trepidation, actualisation and creation that come from abandoning “thematics” and the weight of over-conceptualisation. Nadir is not so much a thesis as much as it is an attempt to understand the profound nature of the unplanned, the frightfully accidental, of love in unlikely relationships, platonic meetings and message swaps, collaboration, abbreviation, and the frenzied nature of “play.” Of course some moments make life more vibrant without the need for a paper or a professor or TED Talk. Nadir argues that the work of the unconscious is as vital as any theory, that doing things for their own sake is powerful – beyond the limits of our imagination, and the child-like, silly, or even corny elements of sincerity can be a necessary balm to the expected queer semiotics of the young artist, those (naturally) being the oft revisited tropes of trauma, pain, abuse, and loneliness. What if we turn all the old assumptions on their head, to argue that darkness is not inherently profound, and that small moments of appreciation amidst the drama provide a sort of luminescent, if perhaps frightening, psychology of their own? Referencing Gaga’s 2020 album Chromatica, unhinged YouTube comments, strange instagram story exchanges, and the hyper-specificity and unique fixations of individual fandom, Holland unpicks the strangeness and brilliance of lo-fi fantasies, to find a way back to sincerity.