Bam’s clay forms project a whimsical freedom that one may well envy. Her ceramic tubes, their girth inviting a warm embrace, stand defiantly, yet comically tall, even though they only barely resist collapse under their own weight. The weaker they are, too, the more their maker expects of them. Bam charges a set of these overgrown pot plants, unglazed and only partly fired, with the weight of the world. With pulley and rope, she promises them reprieve form gravity. 

But all this is woo. Rope only adds weight to the assembly, and it’s Bam who takes the illusory liberties for granted. Her experiments with pigment and granularity lack intent; she falls prey to their babble. An installation of soil and a riverscape video, aesthetically so juvenile it’s embarrassing, betrays the motivated, faux naïveté of the lot.