Alex DaCorte


 

The day was cloudless. The digital egg I brought and broke open on the courts was filled with gelatinous Mountain Dew. I had turned it into this weird, elegant yolk as a poor man's attempt at exploring the alchemical. The whole performance is completely laughable really, just me and the dudes, passing bricks, baking in the sun. As it melts the Dew becomes something like a drug. I pour it out over an aluminum-foil tape mat. The sun cooks, and my shirt glows. I am a scientist and a promo person trying to sell the product to the people. It's my job to tell everyone that the new Jay-Z album is more than just pop music, and the soda that they are drinking is more than just feel-good goop. So while I can dig that this may look like some ill, alien shit, it's really much more plain—just me, the soda, a plaster paperweight on the mat, and the city.