The pieces presented in the exhibit, Peter Karklins' Mother Earth, are filled with forms that emerge from and dissolve into one another. They drip, ooze, and swell, as breasts lengthen into sperm, which bleed into waterfalls, which cascade into lumps of slate. The tiny drawings are grotesque. They are manic, chaotic, even horrifying. However, beneath this ugliness pulses something so beautiful that it is almost sublime. There is no distinction between man and woman, between human and animal, between animal and nature. There is no sense of depth or background, but, instead, boundlessness that seems to extend past the worn edges of the pages. Karklins' drawings, largely created during his night shifts as a security guard, captured the attention of both DePaul philosophy professors and the University of Chicago Press, which recently distributed a book bearing the same title as the exhibit.