Ed Park, Pippa Garner, jaimie branch, Black Holes, Ghost Streams, and more.

Let Pioneer Works come to you. Subscribe to our newsletter.

PW Closure 10/25-10/26

Pioneer Works's galleries and garden are closed to the public on Friday, October 25th and Saturday, October 26th for the United Sounds NYC Festival 2024. 

Bottom [Test]

Own the Archive Sale

This week only, we’re heavily discounting our #PWPress publications to make way for new projects. Find artist-created books for $5, $10, & $15—sales raised from the PW Store are reinvested into funding new, ambitious projects by emerging and underrepresented artists and writers.

Gift Guide

From November 28 through December 14, take 20% off products in the Gift Guide with code: ULTRAFESTIVE. 

Ragas 

Pioneer Works will be closed for normal gallery hours this October 14 & 15 for Ragas Live Festival 2023, learn more 

June closing

Please note, Pioneer Works will be closed for daily admissions until July 7th. We 

open for ticketed programs, view our calendar 

Newsletter Signup

Test Test Test Test Test Test Test Test Test Test 

Bottom

Celebrate 10 years of Pioneer Works by shopping the PW Press Archive Sale! Through October 31, take 10% off Pioneer Works Press items with code 

Flash Flood Closures

Building Closures Due to Flash Floods

Due to weather conditions, Pioneer Works is suspending open gallery hours for Friday, September 29. MHYSA's performance has been rescheduled for Sunday, October 1, with all tickets being transferred to the new date.

April PW Store Banner

Shop the PW Store Spring Sale!

 for the entire month of April and receive an automatic 20% off books, records, apparel, and more. Members save 35%—learn more about membership 

Aura Closure 5/27

Please note:

 will close early at 5pm on Saturday, May 27. Learn more and plan your visit 

CEO Announcement

Just Announced: Pioneer Works Names Mara Manus Chief Executive Officer

The Board of Directors of Pioneer Works is pleased to announce that Mara Manus, former Executive Director for New York State Council on the Arts (NYSCA), has been appointed as the organization’s new Chief Executive Officer. 

PW Closed 11/11

We're closed all day Friday, November 11 for our annual Village Fête Benefit. To learn more about the After Party and get tickets, visit 

[TEST] Segmented Signup Form 

Let Pioneer Works come to you                                    

Our galleries and garden are closed to the public today for a United Sounds NYC Festival 2024. Learn more about the festival 

Closure Announcement [TOP]

We’re making Pioneer Works accessible to all! While our building is temporarily closed until this September, we are continuing to host offsite programming. See upcoming programs 

PW Newsletter

[Test] [Dev] Modal Detailed Form

We are grateful for your engagement and support of Pioneer Works. Our inspiring, thoughtful, and caring community makes our work possible.

In order to build programs that uphold our values and remain predominantly free and open to the public, we rely on our phenomenal community of supporters.

Support our Annual Appeal

Annual Appeal [Action]

[TEST] Top Preview 

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

Top Banner [Broadcast]

 takes place at PW to celebrate this digital experiment and the artists, scientists, musicians, writers, and readers who’ve made it possible. RSVP 

Aura Closure 6/3

 will close early at 5pm on Saturday, June 3. Learn more and plan your visit 

[Test] [Dev] Top Text

Test Header

We're pleased to announce the first major renovation of Pioneer Works! To accommodate the first phase of our construction, we're temporarily relocating to 133 Imlay Street opening in Spring 2022.

Early Closure 5/10/23

Due to programming, Pioneer Works will be closed to the public on Wednesday, May 10. We will be open from Thursday through Sunday for the remainder of the week. Learn more and plan your visit 

Thanksgiving Closure

Pioneer Works will be closed on 11/28 - 11/29 in observance of Thanksgiving and Native American Heritage Day.

ser-quasoid

gen-spade-wound

mus-croissant

tec-wonder

art-mckloud

sys-tnr-std-cond

tec-gellix

gen-brody

mus-eckmannpsych

art-ballast

mus-wooden-nickel

ser-infini

ser-onyx

tec-ballpill

tec-tiny

tec-hobeaux

gen-manicotti

ser-landnama

mus-pixel-western

gen-neue-world

tec-belwe

tec-burko

art-margate

ser-fk-raster

gen-modern-ombra

ser-cheee

art-ehrie

gen-fk-screamer

ser-gliker

gen-buffon

sci-american-typewriter

ser-pipa

gen-excaliber-nouveau

art-ohno-fatface

mus-basteleur

sci-pipo

ser-ohno-blazeface

sci-ameliapro

Test          

art-strike

gen-fleya

art-roberta

art-tenpoint

ser-bradley

gen-puchakhon-magnifier

ser-hybryda

art-kenwyn

ser-herbus

mus-gooper-condensed

sci-twoblock

ser-scandia-stencil

art-cako

ser-blimone

ser-bb-standard

ser-guillotine

sci-eklektyk

gen-combat

sci-microgramma

tec-twobit

mus-french-typewriter

ser-taters

ser-clip-regular

mus-churchward-marianna

art-nichrome

tec-hunter

sci-borax

tec-booty-bold

test

art-churchward-tua

arch-catalog

till-melted

mus-antique-olive

ser-separat

mus-workbench

sci-boogie-school-serif

mus-robur

test-font

till melted

sci-joe182

sci-cirgeos

tec-boecklin

tec-sudety

sys-zipper

ser-martin

ser-marvin-visions

art-gopher

ser-bb-strata

sci-herold

sci-supera-gothic

gen-mondwest

ser-twopoint

Heaven Tonight is a new series of erotic stories that transgress the conventions of desire. Authored by artists and writers, each story offers its own perspective into the effects of passion, shame, lust, loathing—and all things sex-driven. Curated and edited by Micaela Durand.

is a series of erotic stories that transgress the conventions of desire. Authored by artists and writers, each story offers its own perspective into the effects of passion, shame, lust, loathing––and all things sex-driven.

Yuxi sits in the waiting room with one hand deep in her pocket, pressing a thumb against her urethral opening through the lining in her pants. The pressure is enough to alleviate the pain, an iron bullet ripping through the core of the earth.

She leaps up and lumbers toward the woman in burgundy scrubs.

“Yoo-shi.” She corrects the woman. “Can I do the urine sample now? I really have to go.”

“I’m going to measure your bladder. I’ll get the sample from that. Don’t use the restroom yet.” The woman leads her into an exam room and points to a recliner where there is a doggy pee-pee pad and gown. “Put that on and take a seat.”

Yuxi does the Kegel of her life, rips off her clothes, throws on the gown, and sits. The nurse practitioner comes in and inserts a catheter while Yuxi lies back on the raised recliner, feet in metal stirrups, knees splayed. An attendant holds a kidney-shaped plastic bowl between Yuxi’s legs while the urine flows out on its own. She feels so much gratitude, her eyes water. She closes them in ecstasy. This is the dictionary definition of R-E-L-I-E-F.

The nurse removes the catheter. With a purple-gloved hand, she inserts a speculum into Yuxi’s vagina. 

“Yeast infection. I’m going to test for BV.”

“What about a UTI?” Yuxi asks. “I have a UTI too.”

“You’ll get the results back in a day or two.”

“Can I get a prescription now?” Yuxi is desperate.

“How am I supposed to treat something when I don’t know what it is?” The nurse practitioner pulls off the latex gloves and drops them in the trash. “You’ll get an email from the lab.”

“Is the doctor going to see me?” Yuxi asks, pressing her whole palm between her legs, wincing.

“The urogynecologist won’t see you unless I refer. You seem fine,” she says, closing the door.

Fine. FINE? Yuxi flings open the medicine cabinet door. She has a swimsuit on where she’s wedged a bag of frozen blueberries in her crotch. The whole area is throbbing with a different kind of pain, a cold stabbing, which is preferable. Aspirin. Tylenol. Ibuprofen. The Lexapro she never took. The sunscreen she never wears, but always intends to. And in the back… an empty bottle of Cipro. Wait, no. There is one pill left. This is like striking gold! She knows one antibiotic pill isn’t going to cure her, but it will be enough to get her through the night. She hopes.

They are sitting next to each other at an Irish pub in the East Village. The lime wedged on her gin and tonic is outlined in brown. Her urinary tract puckers. Yuxi has forgotten his name. A mirror on the wall behind him is positioned perfectly to reflect his bald spot, which glows in the honeyed light like a bespoke yarmulke.

“So, you build furniture?” she asks, momentarily glancing at his long face before her eyes are drawn back to the mirror and the richly negative space of his hair.

“It’s just a hobby. I’m building all the furniture for my new apartment.” He shows her images on his phone. Tufted rose-gold chair. Tufted rose-gold headboard. Tufted rose-gold ottoman. “I cofounded a performance group. We sold it a few years ago.”

“Like Wooster Group?” Yuxi asks. “What do you mean, sold?”

“No, it was just three guys. We played music and there was choreography. Did some stuff in Vegas and then sold it to a Canadian company. I was nominated for a Grammy. But I didn’t win.” He looks down. “I’m recently divorced.”

Grammy? Vegas? It isn’t intriguing enough for her to pursue, so she lets it go. She is just relieved to be pain-free, if only momentarily, and makes a note to always leave one antibiotic in the bottle just in case. Pay it forward to the next UTI.

But what about tomorrow? She knows she’s going to be in another realm of burning hell come morning.

“Do you want another?” He holds up his empty glass.

The tufted rose-gold sofa is oily beneath Yuxi’s ass. Pantyless, she is perched awkwardly on the sofa’s edge, her dress hiked up around her waist, while the man kisses her. His thin lips are hard, pressing into her face while leaving a trail of saliva on her chin as he laps, his tongue coated in white fuzz.

“Just a minute,” she says, leaping up.

In the bathroom, Yuxi looks at the mirror. The vague smell of his sour saliva wafts up from her chin. She rubs it with hand soap and splashes some water on her face. She pulls at the edges of the mirror. It doesn’t open.

Looking behind her, she sees a cabinet. Bingo. Inside, there are vials, ampules, an empty tube of itching cream. Finasteride. Valium. Viagra. No antibiotics? Where is she going to get antibiotics now? Stupid rose-gold asshole. She came over here for nothing.

He had warned her that he was on antidepressants and Adderall, which made him jerk off and speak in tongues to her cunt ferally without direction or end.

She sits on the toilet and squeezes out a few painful drops. She can feel its trajectory, her urethra lighting up red as the hot burn slides through her. 

The hot anesthesiologist who ate her out until she was raw and swollen on his 44th-floor balcony overlooking Times Square. The pleasure was liminal—horny, painful—and there is nothing that turns Yuxi on more than straddling thresholds. He had warned her that he was on antidepressants and Adderall, which made him jerk off and speak in tongues to her cunt ferally without direction or end. On antidepressants, he couldn’t come or stay hard. Yuxi, bent over the glass balcony’s ledge, felt the Manhattan wind slide over her skin as the sound of strangers honking diffused into the air between skyscrapers.

The anesthesiologist made her come a few times, eating her out before his leg cramped up, his mealy dick slapping against the glass balcony wall as he stumbled. Its modest print marked their encounter. Yuxi calls him the ED Daddy. Because, erectile dysfunction. Because, six years ago he got off the antidepressants long enough to ejaculate into a cup and make an IVF baby with his ex, an unhinged psychiatrist.

Then there was the poly psychonaut who fed her pills whose names she could never remember because they were a complex sequence of numbers and chemical compounds. Sex with the psychonaut always began with him clinking a pair of chrome butt plugs. They would argue over who got the smaller one. Yuxi has hemorrhoids but she tells herself that if she really lubes up the plug, it’s ok. Just no anal sex. The loser would get the big one jammed up their ass. They would hallucinate and stick things into each other while high. The remote control, once. And the last time, two nights ago, a tiny ceramic llama sculpture. That one was for a video they made called 

When she squeezes it all out, the pain subsides. She wipes and flushes, cups water from the sink into her palm and splashes it between her legs a few times. The bathmat is soaked. She squishes her bare feet into it, finds a clean hand towel in the cabinet and rubs herself dry.

On the rose-gold sofa, a poor Chesterfield knockoff, the man holds his half-soft dick in one hand, stroking the tip with his thumb and forefinger. Men, Yuxi thinks, hah. What confidence they have. A framed photo of the Blue Man Group hangs on a wall behind him. He stares at her through heavy-lidded eyes, one long arm draped over the sofa’s freshly upholstered back. She stands there watching him, waiting, out of reach.

Washington Square Park is so crowded, Yuxi has to elbow her way through the NYU students raving around the desiccated fountain to happy hardcore.

It is just after 9 pm. She had left the man’s apartment in no time at all, having gotten down on all fours ass-first in front of the rose-gold sofa doing slow Kegels while he jerked himself off. Yuxi had meant it to be taunting and ridiculous and grotesque all at once. She pushed her asshole, making her hemorrhoid pop out and go back in again as she contracted her sphincter. Her special skill.

It doesn’t matter. She can do anything if she times it right. It is pulsing flesh, after all. And she needed to get the hell out of there while it was still early.

Exiting the park’s northeast corner, she dodges a skateboarder who eats shit on the asphalt. The skateboard shoots out from under him, narrowly missing her. He’s thrown into a parked car. A blond dreadlock flies off his head and slides down the windshield of a van. Yuxi stops, squeezes her labia together through her dress like a hoagie. The bacteria is flourishing. She can feel it reproducing.

She had not been able to locate her underwear in the apartment and rushed out when he went to the bathroom—before he could discover that she had taken the Blue Man Group photo. Sans underwear, bonus collector’s memorabilia.

The skateboarder grabs the dreadlock and retrieves his board from beneath the van. He stands on the curb, fastening the single dreadlock back into place behind his ear. It is a clip-on, Yuxi realizes.

This one lives in a prewar duplex on Mercer, a corner unit with a lofted bedroom overlooking a massive living room and kitchen with cast concrete countertops. Yuxi hangs her bag on the backrest of a stool and kicks off her platform boots.

Yuxi nods. She leans her forearms against the counter, then lays her cheek down. The coolness of the concrete travels from her cheeks and arms down to her crotch, which is flickering with activity.

“It’s hot outside, Pedro,” she says. “Some kid with a clip-on dreadlock nearly took me down.”

“It’s like Burning Man there on the weekends now.” She gets up and turns around, hoists herself up on the counter. Her vagina is in direct contact with the concrete. She shifts a bit to spread her labia like an open-faced sandwich. Feels good. It’s the next best thing to frozen blueberries. “What do you have to drink?”

“I’m having scotch. But you might want a spritz?” He swirls a tumbler beneath his nose.

“No alcohol. I’m feeling dizzy.” The truth is that her body temperature increases dramatically when she drinks, which seems to exacerbate her UTI. Maybe the increased heat creates optimal conditions for bacteria to thrive.

“Wheatgrass?” He points to a masticator behind him. “Electrolyte water?”

He hands her a bottle of chilled electrolyte water from the sub-zero fridge. Reaching up, he snips a handful of wheatgrass growing in a flat on a shelf above the sink and shoves it into the masticator. He flicks on the switch and the sound of the machine fills the air.

Yuxi shrugs, wiggling her open-faced sandwich on the concrete griddle to itch. The extruder begins shitting out a dense green turd, as dry as any constipated bowel movement. Out another spout, green juice begins to drip. She feels her pee hole begin to water. Pull it in, tighten the valve. With every drip, she feels herself losing a private battle against herself. The thing about peeing is that, every time, it burns. And the more she pees, the more urgent it feels to keep returning to the toilet. On some days, she can’t leave her apartment, a small studio that she sublets with a toilet in the hallway, though the shower is in her apartment. She has an empty cat food container the old tenant left behind that she sometimes pees in. It has a wide mouth and a handle. It’s a fantastic container to pee in, the perfect height for her to squat over, and with a screw-on lid so she doesn’t have to empty it right away. Once she forgot to empty it when she went out of town for two months in the summer and it was so rancid when she returned that it smelled like what she imagined a dead body macerated in ammonia would smell like.

She leaps down from the counter. No holding it anymore. There is a huge splat of cream darkening the concrete. It is a Rorschach that looks uncannily like the llama the poly psychonaut nudged in her cunt. A bolt of terror floods Yuxi’s body. Had they forgotten the llama inside and this is its way of sending a distress signal? She rubs the Rorschach with her palm. It is like a moisturizer, penetrating into the pores of the concrete. Fuck. She splashes some electrolyte water on it. There. She can blame the water.

A glass beaker beneath the masticator is filling up. How much of this green shit does he think she can drink? He keeps feeding more into the spout.

“Down the hall. Third door on the left.”

She sprints to the bathroom. It’s breathtaking, the rose-veined marble sink, the hinoki bathtub. The aroma of the wood is full, warm, a counterpoint to the heaviness of the marble. No medicine cabinet here. She plops on the toilet and lets go of the muscle, a little bit of urine dribbling down her thigh. She spreads her legs wide and rips off some toilet paper to dab her thigh while the deluge continues in the background. It burns so good. Her eyes water.

She presses a button on the side of the toilet and it flushes soundlessly. Toilet envy! Yuxi didn’t even have her own private toilet, much less a silent one. This must be some Japanese import. The bar of soap is brand new. It has notes of oud, bergamot.