In January 2025, the World Monuments Fund declared the Moon an endangered cultural heritage site.1 Littered by “space junk” and threatened by the emerging “space tourism” market, “the moon seems so far outside of our scope,” Bénédicte de Montlaur, the WMF’s president and chief executive officer, told the New York Times’s Zachary Small. “But with humans venturing more and more into space, we think it is the right time to get ourselves organized.”2 As Sherrie Levine reminds us, by way of others, “The world is filled to suffocating.”3 The suite of images that make up works broadly called Moon Money are of fake money: sometimes a prop, a casino token, or play money from forgotten games. They are fraudulent, forged fabrications, but as we know, real and unreal are no longer meaningful categories. The money was shot all over: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Palm Springs, along Florida’s Sun Coast and down through the spooky Keys. Here, the works are situated on tables found on Kleinanzeigen, like forgotten executive objects of yore, but they can also hang on the wall. The works are objects as much as they are images. Behind the tables, the works are, of course, watched over by none other than two Mr. Moneybags, heavyweight black trash bags with sneaking, hidden eyes.

You have minions, Azrael said. So many, the Devil said. But I prefer to call them satellites. Quick! Is the moon a satellite? Startled, Azrael said no. It is a satellite, the Devil said gravely. Earth’s satellite. It controls the tides. Well I do know that, Azrael said, embarrassed. It maintains order. The seasons and such. Spring, Azrael mused. But not for much longer. Is that true! Azrael exclaimed. It will not tolerate forever human beings’ rude assaults–the probing and prodding and poking and collecting. Misguided, Azrael said. Have these people ever known what they were looking for?1