I’m looking at a flood of epic proportions, an apocalypse behind glass. Inside this massive, multi-ton triptych, destruction lies just beyond reach. Inside, ephemera is tossed around, foam curls up, waves thrash. You can only stand and look. And it’s hard to look away. I don’t look away. I want to press against the glass and see if it will break. I want to see if the waters will flow out. I want to see if everything will be washed clean and disappear. Instead I step back. The flood remains inside, forever wreaking havoc, a Bosch-like scene set in the middle of the cavernous, Civil War-era building that houses The Intercourse.