Why can’t the tentacles of an octopus sprout from the pit of a toad’s stomach? Why can’t crystalline protrusions emerge from the shell on the back of a wolf? Why can’t a raven have two heads? When I see Nicholas Di Genova’s drawings, I see the pieces of biological forms fitted together in oddly natural formations. It is not a deformity but a natural state – acceptable in its entire aesthetic hypothesis. The cellular constructs composed of bubbly units and rectangular bricks; each hair resting not as strands but as singular forms in a bunched up collective; polygonal claws; armor-like appendages; rippling hands; each segment is so uniform and flush with the rest, yet the more you stare the more distinct they become. Is this the geometry of a form? The binding of two shapes rests not in some peculiarity; a moment of chance is not the creator. It is deliberate like the block of creatures that form geometric cohesion – 10,000 vertebrates all locked and neighbors. From afar, blocks of black ink, indistinguishable, like the shapes composing the “Dirt Wolf.” But up close, distinct. The everything of the natural world of a creative mind; the hand reaches into the pit of a frog and pulls from it, a flower.