There is something very lost and alone about the work of Davis Ayer. But it's not morose at all. It's alive with soul and spirit. Like the last American Dream. His work reminds me of Jack Kerouac, fighting the last good fight of an ideal, kicking out in all directions as you do it. I can smell summer. It's hiding somewhere in the thunderstorms that keep waking me up at 6am every day, in the humidity and restless of the streets. I lie in bed in the mornings, listening to thunder and rain on a glass roof. I can smell lavender and mint from my window sill. I spend half an hour stretching out and waking up my knotted limbs. By the time I've had a hot sharp shower and a cup of mint tea the rain has stopped and the city starts to move. This is living.