Starting May 30, PRESENTE CONTINUO will be available to purchase on presentecontinuo.com, cpcompany.com, and at the C.P. Company flagship store in Milan, Corso Matteotti 7.
Running parallel is Reigning Cement 1.4, the latest evolution of Draxler’s long-running sonic and curatorial project. Built from 34 identical sound sources recorded around his Los Angeles studio - demolition, rail lines, alarms, heavy machinery - the compilation invites 24 artists (Trentemøller, TR/ST, Chelsea Wolfe, Portrayal of Guilt and more) to reinterpret the same material into radically different worlds. First released in 2020 and later removed from the internet, Reigning Cement has always functioned as an experiment in distributed authorship and controlled circulation. Version 1.4 expands that logic: released exclusively via Draxler’s RIP ID app and accompanied by a reworked photographic book, it operates less as an archive than as a recalibration of form, intent, and encounter.
Both projects sit within Radical Iconography Productions (RIP), Draxler’s self-built platform spanning music, books, installations, and curated distribution. Rather than outsourcing context to institutions or platforms, RIP functions as an authored container, one that insists meaning doesn’t emerge from systems or narratives alone, but from how we choose to engage with them.
What follows is a conversation about machines as anatomy, fragmentation as material, authorship without ownership myths, and why culture, not technology, should always set the tempo.
Jesse, both C280 and Reigning Cement 1.4 orbit around systems, mechanical, psychic, infrastructural. What draws you to the places where human intention meets the logic of machines?
Human intention is the logic of machines. When I look at mechanical systems I mostly notice how they are replicas of the human system interpreted through different materials and constraints. The systems we create to navigate our environment mimic the systems, physical and logical, within ourselves. Machines and infrastructures are outsourced anatomy.
Reigning Cement 1.4 is built from 34 sonic elements interpreted by 24 artists, almost like a decentralized creative protocol. Did you think of it as a kind of artistic “forking” or open-source model?
Yeah, I can vibe with those ideas. Reigning Cement has always been a distributed authorship experiment, so seeing people interpret the same source material into completely different realities naturally aligns with that open and forking logic.
The new edition of Reigning Cement exists only through your RIP ID app. In a moment when ownership and access are being redefined by blockchain, what made you want to control distribution through your own ecosystem?
If ownership and access are being redefined, I would rather define them myself. The RIP ID ecosystem lets me control context, circulation, and the conditions of encounter. It is not about withholding but rather building a framework that reflects the work instead of relying on platforms designed with their own purposes and motivations.
The original Reigning Cement was released in 2020 and later removed from the internet. What does erasure or controlled disappearance mean to you in an era obsessed with permanence and immutability?
Not everything should be universally available at all times. Permanence is not inherently valuable. Most meaningful things are fleeting, and that is what makes them meaningful.
I enjoyed music more when I had to seek it out or when it reached me in ways beyond an algorithm deciding to play it next. Because of that, I almost completely stopped using streaming platforms and moved back to physical media. Records in the studio, CDs in the car. That shift renewed my passion for music. It adds a dimension to the experience that current streaming platforms simply cannot provide.
Your practice often deals with fragmentation, audio, imagery, memory, infrastructure. If culture is increasingly atomized across platforms and chains, how does fragmentation become a creative method rather than a crisis?
Fragmentation is simply the reality we are living in. Culture is not atomizing because it wants to; it is responding to systems that are already fractured. For me, fragmentation is the raw material rather than viewed as a malfunction or a crisis. It is a practice of tracing the fractures rather than pretending they do not exist or trying to fix them.
You’ve spoken about the oppressive yet magnetic quality of industrial LA sounds. By turning noise into structure, are you suggesting that meaning emerges from systems rather than narrative?
Meaning does not emerge from either narrative or systems. Those are just frameworks. Meaning happens in the encounter.
The car in C280 sits among The Patina Collective’s rare Mercedes archive, your machine versus immaculate machines. What happens when authenticity and patina enter a world obsessed with perfect digital replication?
That world is afraid of it. Posers do not like being near anything authentic, no matter what that authenticity is. A fake punk is intimidated by a real Amish farmer. Authenticity exposes the lived reality underneath the performance and interrupts the illusion.
The phrase “Machine of Loving Grace” hints at intimacy with technology, a kind of reciprocal dreaming. How do you personally negotiate tenderness with tools, whether mechanical, digital, or algorithmic?
When we apply meaning to a tool, using it becomes an intimate exchange. A tool is neutral until you project intention onto it. That is where tenderness appears. Not in the machine, but in your engagement with it.
If Reigning Cement 1.4 represents a recalibration of form and intent, what does “evolution” look like for you in an environment where tech shifts faster than culture can metabolize it?
Why the fuck should culture care how fast tech shifts? Tech should follow culture, not the other way around. I know that’s not the way it actually functions at the moment, but that’s also why almost everything feels homogenized and phoned in, its tech driving culture rather than culture driving tech. Tech itself is dead, how you use tech is the only thing that gives it any value or meaning.
As platforms fragment and creators seek sovereignty, how do you imagine your own infrastructure, RIP & the RIP app, evolving as a self-contained creative universe?
We are already opening RIP to others, much in the same way that Reigning Cement operates as both a personal project and a curatorial one. RIP is evolving into a curated mode of distribution, whether that is digital releases, physical media, or clothing and merchandise. The key is selectivity. Anyone we bring in will be chosen with intention and actually supported within the ecosystem, so the experience remains coherent rather than becoming another open platform with no center.
Tell me about the birth of the G strings.
G-Strings was born from our sisterhood built on and off stage. G-Strings has many birthdays. It is born each time we choose to protest a system of control with humor and love. It’s embracing the randomness of where our bodies end up together. It’s rooted in 4am truck stop showers, dragging a wagon full of beachballs and dildos down Houston, climbing trees in our pumps, and falling off of the Slipper Room stage. If we made a list of every insane experience we’ve been through together, you wouldn’t believe us.
Most of us met through school at NYU, in nightlife, or in open dance classes around the city. G-Strings was officially born in October 2024 after Charlie Sue and Frances cried their hearts out on the Slipper Room stage, manifesting dreams of a showgirl band that would change the world through dance. The name was born at Shu Jiao Fu Zhou in Chinatown after Charlie and Frances were listening to the song G-String Murders by Los Mambo Jambo. Once our name was established Julia D and Charlie wrote the G-Strings Manifesto. As soon as we had words to define our messaging, shit got real.
How many members are there? Is this number constantly growing or do you see it staying constant?
There are 7 G-Strings. 7 feels lucky! The work calls for a closeness and friendship that has been growing for years. The chemistry we have as performers is truly a reflection of our trust in one another. We always say, “our show is not just a show, it’s a lifestyle.” It is a daily practice.
What’s one word to describe the energy in the dressing room?
Carny.
Throughout the show, costumes are constantly coming on (and off, of course). Who makes the clothes and how open is that collaboration?
The G-Strings do! One of our iconic pieces is the “Birthday Suit,” designed by Charlie Sue: a bra, panty, and merkin, stoned to resemble pubes and nipples. Charlie’s mom, Joie Shettler (an OG Pussycat Doll), also gave us some original pieces that are really sacred to us. One person may come up with a costuming idea, and then we all amplify it. We definitely have a shared taste. Our last show also featured designs by Miss September Rose (Miranda Ljung & Ava Trent), Skank Chic (Mary-Joyce Mcfarland), alongside our very own Emily Eshoo, as well as handmade G-String thongs by Dani Threads (Daniella Nunez).
What’s a rule you love breaking?
What rules?
What’s a misconception about burlesque that you hope the G strings are putting to rest?
We just want people to know what burlesque is. We have burlesque in our show but we’re not a burlesque troop. Burlesque and cabaret are such buzzwords right now because everyone’s obsessed with the aesthetic. Burlesque is under the umbrella of Vaudeville which is a historical variety show that included magic, contortion, comedy, sexual parody, drag, and dance.
Our understanding and appreciation of Vaudeville comes from our burlesque mother, Emily Shephard, a brilliant historian, performer, and visionary. Burlesque is a child of Vaudeville, informed by stripping. “Burlesque” is often a more digestible term than “stripping” because of classist implications. The reality is, burlesque has forever been enmeshed in sex work. The G-Strings are a matrix of so many worlds and teachers. Simultaneously, our freedom is found in disidentifying from labels and categories.
How do you want your fans to feel after a show?
We would love to leave people with an understanding of empowerment. For us, empowerment lies in two contradicting truths: you can find power through monetizing sex while also expressing nudity purely as form.
Your manifesto points to, “a refusal to sacrifice creative individualism.” How do you embody this?
“A refusal to sacrifice creative individualism" is our devotion to honor our voices beyond what makes us "bookable" or "successful," according to the industry. Within the pursuit of commercial dance, we always felt a resistance to being commodified, to becoming a voiceless vessel. There's this pressure that doesn't often make space for the multitude of artists. We are truly shapeshifters; one day we are designing lighting, the next making costumes, choreographing, and building a business. We have found so much autonomy in creating our own language and formula. There is relief in putting power into a space we have carved for one another. It is selfish and selfless.
What’s the sexiest place to dance?
In the extremes. Spotlights and Darkness.
Is there a moment in the show that feels especially sacred?
The moment when butterflies disappear, and we are able to be fully present with the audience. We love creating room for ourselves as performers to make spontaneous choices. There's this glimmer of presence when you are locked in with the audience in a moment of improvisation. That's part of why we always prioritize an immersive experience. The thinner the fourth wall, the more real everything feels.
To be specific, standout sacred moments include: spitting gum in people's mouths, knocking over drinks, unveiling the merkin, and screaming at ex-boyfriends.
If the G strings had 2 parents, who would they be?
Lady Gaga and Jo Calderone.
What’s next for you all?
Many more NYC shows and projects! 2026 world tour! Always remembering to love it!
Onyewuenyi
The exhibition title, YOU CAN HATE ME NOW, immediately made me think about Nas — and specifically the “Hate Me Now” video. My brother-in-law still lives near the deli where they shot some of it.
Gaitor-Lomack
Up on the deli?
Onyewuenyi
Yeah.
Gaitor-Lomack
That was an iconic moment for 1999.
Onyewuenyi
Iconic.
Gaitor-Lomack
You know, it’s funny. I almost created some kind of custom awning situation for this show, something I could climb up onto during the performance. I did something like that years ago — climbed onto this narrow stone ledge — but that was tied more to a St. Michael moment I was having.
Onyewuenyi
What was the St. Michael backstory?
Gaitor-Lomack
There was a period where St. Michael kept appearing to me in these strange metaphors and traces. Everywhere I turned, something was pointing back to him. I ended up at Popular Jewelry on Canal one afternoon and came across this vintage St. Michael pendant — 14k, Italian-made, just an incredibly crafted piece. One of the most beautiful objects I’ve ever owned. It hung on a gold rope I bought back in New Haven when I was putting in serious work. I felt like I was back in ’96 wearing that thing. I wore it for years.
Onyewuenyi
What was going on at the time?
Gaitor-Lomack
It was right after one of the best openings I’ve had — at PPOW. I was dressed in off-white; Michelle was with me, also in off-white. Then later that night, something shifted. It was Fashion Week on 9/11/2021. The streets had this thirsty energy. Tribeca was on the edge of a new rebirth — designers, artists, people chasing proximity, trying to squeeze into whatever they thought the moment was. Still happening. I made the decision later that spring to move back to L.A.
Onyewuenyi
You’ve talked about having these spiritual encounters — these visions. Some people might dismiss that. They might call them hallucinations. But I think when I look at your work, and how you move in the world, it’s very clear these encounters shape your practice.
Gaitor-Lomack
Right. And when you’re tapped into that kind of process, you’re not imagining things — you’re receiving them. There’s something extraordinary about making the unseen present, passionately and uniquely, through the work. These aren’t hallucinations. They’re visions. They pull you into different places and experiences that most people never step into.
I remember one time in Palermo, I got lost wandering through this old town. I ended up inside this beautiful church — glowing like I’d never seen before. I had this moment like, How did I even get here? Because back home? I’m not stepping into a church. I avoid those structures entirely.
Onyewuenyi
It’s funny because before your show here, you’ll probably pass through Queens, which puts you right back into the orbit of Nas and that whole lineage. YOU CAN HATE ME NOW.
Gaitor-Lomack
Exactly. YOU CAN HATE ME NOW.
Onyewuenyi
One of the major works you’ve been describing is the elevator sculpture — Only Way Up. What is it about that piece that holds such weight for you?
Gaitor-Lomack
It’s a turn-of-the-century birdcage elevator. I’d been imagining doing something with a lion’s cage at first — I kept thinking about Charlie Chaplin’s silent performance inside a lion’s cage. There’s this magical moment where metaphor meets sensory fear and fantasy. That’s the energy that originally drew me toward the elevator. And these elevators were hand-cranked — there was always someone stationed inside. A handler. A guide. Someone controlling your ascent.
Onyewuenyi
Almost like someone deciding what floor you deserve.
Gaitor-Lomack
Exactly. But in Only Way Up, there’s no one inside. It’s empty. There’s an authority missing — or maybe it’s being reclaimed.
Onyewuenyi
Can people enter it?
Gaitor-Lomack
Who knows?
Onyewuenyi
What I love is how you take objects we think we understand and you shift their meaning — make the unseen visible. Like the Black & Mild tips. There’s something alchemical in how you transform something discarded into something symbolic.
Gaitor-Lomack
Those Black & Mild tips — that’s a special moment in my practice. Where I’m from, cigarettes were around, but Blacks were the thing. Champing a Black: removing the cancer paper, putting the tobacco back, tapping it down. Ritual. And then when I went to New Haven — it felt like Jersey in the ’90s. Everything in slow motion, very familiar. Productive. Corner stores everywhere. Hustle everywhere. And on the ground? Black & Mild tips everywhere. I used to go out with a brown bag and a glove and just collect them.
The first piece I made was Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire: a Christmas tree with every branch replaced with Black & Mild tips. Then I wrapped a fire extinguisher during a performance at a solo exhibition and placed it under the tree.
Onyewuenyi
It reminds me of something Fiona Duncan asked during an artist talk: “How does your work help Black liberation?” I’m curious how you respond to that.
Gaitor-Lomack
Liberation isn’t ordinary. Using your imagination is its own form of liberation — showing people that freedom is available in different forms. But you have to liberate yourself before you can liberate anyone else.
There are artists who get close to something powerful, and the moment they feel that proximity, they start talking too much — leaking things before they’re lived. When you leak information, you can destroy the operation. In my work, a lot of things are coded. The nuances of a Black & Mild tip — those are encoded forms of experience.
Onyewuenyi
Someone brought up Glissant — how he supposedly held a gun in Cuba during liberation movements. His friends later said it never happened. It became a myth he told himself. That myth-making is powerful.
Gaitor-Lomack
Myth is essential. And I’m moved constantly by things people don’t see. But we’re also dealing with what we do see — the aggressions, projections, rhythms of the street, the past, the future. Everything collides. It becomes an equation. I was never great at math, but when I slowed down, I realized: it’s all about how you see the problem. So now, in the work, I’ve simplified the equation. At one point I might’ve used many objects, but now sometimes it’s three moves. Two. One. That’s a life lesson.
Onyewuenyi
And there must be things you see that you choose not to turn into artwork.
Gaitor-Lomack
A lot. Because I move with sensitivity and discipline. Just because something is part of the Black experience doesn’t mean I get to exploit it — especially commercially. If it’s not mine to tell, I leave it alone. There’s so much bad tracing happening — bad work using Blackness as a shortcut or shield. Awards, representation, museum talks — none of that justifies poor taste. I don’t exploit my people. And it has to meet my taste at the moment. Everything is not for the world.
Onyewuenyi
I remember sending you a photo of a thrift-store piece thinking you’d like it, and you said no. And that felt like part of your code.
Gaitor-Lomack
It’s like walking down Canal Street. Everything’s labeled. Everything’s screaming for attention. I’m drawn to the things without the label — objects with a story. And that’s what I invest in: the unseen value, the unfamiliar.
Onyewuenyi
That connects to the Table of Patrons project — people supporting something they can’t see yet, trusting the unseen.
Gaitor-Lomack
Exactly. You trust the vision. You trust the person delivering it. Shiny objects aren’t always what they seem. Some of them have dark histories. Sometimes the loudest thing isn’t the best thing.
Onyewuenyi
You once said you get 16 bars with a person — just like in music — to make them see the vision.
Gaitor-Lomack
You do. And those 16 bars need to hit. People need to visualize themselves within what you’re building.
Onyewuenyi
Does every artwork feel like your 16 bars?
Gaitor-Lomack
Not anymore. I’ve simplified. Sometimes one clean line is worth more than a whole verse. One work can be enough. One show every three years can be enough. I don’t need four solos a year. My pace matters more than the industry’s hunger.
Onyewuenyi
Yet you’re always making.
Gaitor-Lomack
Always. That’s the life I chose.
Onyewuenyi
The chairs in this show stand out. They feel like warnings: don’t get comfortable.
Gaitor-Lomack
That’s exactly right. Get up. Move. A Chair for a Powerful Curator — the tilt, the missing leg, the balloon that says “congratulations” — it’s all coded. Nothing is meant to hold you for long.
Onyewuenyi
And then there are works like I’m Indigenous Too. People see an American flag being pierced, but it’s actually an Angels hat.
Gaitor-Lomack
Right. People assume. But I’d never disrespect the flag like that. It’s corny. This hat had stars and stripes, and I made it into a viper — nails in every star. Nails are historical: without them, nothing gets built. That’s part of the language.
Onyewuenyi
And Pope Dealer — the sculpture in MacArthur Park.
Gaitor-Lomack
That’s Pope Romero. God bless his soul. Mink coat, gold rope. Another kind of altar.
Onyewuenyi
Religion is everywhere in your work — Catholicism, Islam, Judaism. Did you grow up religious?
Gaitor-Lomack
I grew up around all of it. New Jersey exposed me to everything — synagogues, Five Percenters, Nation of Islam. My mother cared for an elderly Jewish man, Ivan. He taught me things about his culture while we watched TV and talked cars. I’m an ally to it all.
Onyewuenyi
Your work feels like it embraces spiritual multiplicity — syncretism — without submission.
Gaitor-Lomack
Exactly. There’s no submission in my work. That’s the difference between art and religion. These symbols are man-made. I can reorient them. Transform them. They move us daily whether or not we practice the religion tied to them. And I’m free in that. Total freedom.
Onyewuenyi
That ties back to the title — YOU CAN HATE ME NOW. There’s a directness to it.
Gaitor-Lomack
The title is a response — not an explanation. To the past, the present, and what’s coming. I’ve taken a code of silence around explaining it too much. The work is the response. Whether you walk in or walk out, whether you question my intention — I’ve already responded.
Onyewuenyi
You’ve mentioned the Carmina Burana — Lady Fortuna — as part of the architecture behind the show.
Gaitor-Lomack
Yeah. These last years have been about luck, fortune, cycles, the wheel turning. I sample that energy. It’s how I choose to spin everything now.
Onyewuenyi
You’ve said you don’t fit in, and you don’t want to.
Gaitor-Lomack
Never fit in. I’ve danced around people who do, but only because I can. That’s my gift. I know too much to fit in. I’m in a different place with it now — almost like an art of letting go. If success means becoming something I don’t respect, I don’t want it.
Onyewuenyi
And so much of the work becomes a forecast — a guide for others, even when you step back.
Gaitor-Lomack
Exactly. I’ve helped so many people see the next step in their race. Now it’s my turn to walk my own walk. What I’ve been forecasting is here now.
Onyewuenyi
Artists often talk about community, responsibility, representation. But with you, it feels like it all returns to vision.
Gaitor-Lomack
Vision, and the unseen. And trusting it.
Onyewuenyi
Well — thank you for walking us through this world. It’s powerful.
Gaitor-Lomack
Thank you. I love speaking about the work — and I love not speaking about it. But I always enjoy giving someone the experience.
Self-Portrait by Daniel T Gaitor-Lomack
