Art is barren today, long with dawdling densities tomorrow, and when the future arrives, the twisty intricacies are nothing new; they are century-old patterns recalled. Julie Adaka…I mean Adaku, has a sculpted looking face; one where, you, the art connoisseur, the interpreter of convoluted aesthetics, couldn’t tell if the countenance about her airbrushed aspects were borne out of years of domestic brawls with whomever she once lived with. You, the quintessential Hound Dog, call them...