Max Vermillion is busy slamming the lids down on old-school metal trashcans, rhythmically, angrily, while Sharonjean McLeob dances behind him. McLeob’s dress is diaphanous, almost traditionally balletic, except for the massive, anatomically detailed penis painted on the back. Meanwhile, Jill Wegner, who is perched atop an industrial scissor-lift, yells directions from her megaphone. “Angrier, Max! Continue reading