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- Text by Larry Fink - Includes previously unpublished photographs - First edition limited to 500 copies Larry Fink met Cobo on Facebook, not him, but his images flooded the airwaves. Obsessive, dark, full of white heat, and grey smoke. Layers of lace, deeper levels of irregular ritualistic pain. It perplexed me this flow-on voyeuristic event. Who could this guy be? What is he made of? There was enough inventive poetic distance in the work that it resonated outside the ordinary boundaries of the prurient. This was no sex fiend, nor a guy who was looking for a hook up, hung over. This was work which was drawn in to its subject by blood-letting magnets, cleansing leeches, not to mention a certain odd classism. It was informed by art, but art was not the point, ritual was. The incense was sour, the flesh untouched by desire.