Cache is trapper slang for hiding place. This gallery temporarily conceals Nevine Mahmoud’s sculptures—slender beast parts and toys for human animals—all compressed by and into marble, metal, clay, and plastic. Driven together, they are a faunal amalgamate. They exist beyond or after reproduction. With assists—poles and shelves and armatures—these sculptures cling to the manic aftershock of quasi-biblical begats. In other words, maybe these animistic forms incessantly seek out their birth origins: Are you my real father? Is Nanny Mommy? Why is the dog my half-brother? Do I share DNA with this deer? Presently, the work is lodged at a juncture, somehow situated between the Psychoanalytic Turn and the Surrealist Turn.

After reproduction: I am reminded of the pristine, postmenopausal white couches of early 1980s Brentwood—snowy parts in pale interior light—where women in white pants might lounge. Their bodies never bled; someone else sheds blood elsewhere. Lo! Down the street—there’s Tom Selleck waving his trowel in his garden! It is hard to recognize him because he’s shaved his moustache! And where did the moustache go—into which trapper’s cache? Not Mahmoud’s! Her beast amalgamates—these half-abortive creatures—are smooth, cervine ghosts.

But perhaps the gallery swivels from cache to a liminal zone where sculptures gather, wraith-like, in truncated gallery-time. Remember Mahmoud’s Josefine (2023): a fetal deer is positioned on the floor as if its deer mother has truly miscalculated and stowed her fawn in a gallery—but so rosy is that marble that it dashes any notion that this is corpse or headstone—it is flush with life.