In "Snipe Hunt," George Jenne kills a mockingbird.

The artist, North Carolina born and bred, taunts us with the snippets of an elusive narrative, ducking and twirping through three cinematically-charged sculptural installations: a fallen tree fort, a smoldering backyard smoker, and a giant sacred pink closet. The Southern Gothic twist of Blue Velvet veers sharply left into the Baroque. But the charge of the confederate boy scout in these night woods– hiding in the periphery to observe his community's tidy disfunction– is in the focused authority of pinks, greens and golds; the minimalist's precision of disorienting scales and alignments; and the sure material integrity of a purely conjured world. The mastery of construction is stupendous, the balance of intimacy and alienation, dead-on.

Snipe hunting is a southern hazing ritual. The unsuspecting innocent is all he-haw to kill the bird (that for all practical purposes doesn't exist) until he finds himself abandoned and alone in the middle of nowhere, like a perfect idiot. It is a bad, mean joke repeated through the generations.

But Jenne joins us for this "Snipe Hunt" and offers up a trick of his own, assiduously assembling meaning from the fragments of an elusive remembering.